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Offline Eddie

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Re: Diner Library
« Reply #30 on: May 08, 2013, 08:13:59 AM »
Richard Brautigan was a favorite of mine back in high school. I think his work has stood the test of time.

He died by his own hand, crazy and alone, up on his beautiful wild land at Big Sur, a bitter old alcoholic and a gun nut. There's a lesson there for preppers, I'm pretty sure.


Karma Repair Kit: Items 1-4

1. Get enough food to eat, and eat it.
2. Find a place to sleep where it is quiet, and sleep there.
3. Reduce intellectual and emotional noise until you reach the silence of yourself, and listen to it.
4.

                                 ---Richard Brautigan


All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace

I like to think (and
the sooner the better!)
of a cybernetic meadow
where mammels and computers
live together in mutually
programming harmony
like pure water
touching clear sky.

     --- Richard Brautigan
What makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere it hides a well.

Offline Eddie

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Re: Diner Library...Howl 2.0
« Reply #31 on: May 08, 2013, 11:57:56 AM »
My daughter brought this to my attention after seeing it on her brother's FaceBook page. So FaceBook influences me even though I never, ever use it. This poem is am awesome parody of the original Ginsberg.
   

      HOWL 2.0
      For Fixoid
      I

      I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
      tumblr, blogging hysterical naked,
      dragging themselves through the 4chan threads at dawn
      looking for some tranny dicks,
      angelheaded hipsters burning for the facebook heavenly
      connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-
      ery of night,
      who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
      up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
      lcd screens floating across the tops of desks
      contemplating gifs,
      who bared their brains to Google Map how to get under the El and
      saw Cory Arcangels staggering on boing-
      boing posts illuminated,
      who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
      hallucinating Lauren Conrad and Blake Lively
      among the scholars of blog,
      who were expelled from the EFnets for crazy &
      publishing obscene odes on the Windows of the
      95,
      who cowered in unshaven chatrooms in underwear, burn-
      ing their CDs in wastebaskets and listening
      to the SouljaBoy Thru The Phone,
      who got busted in pubic forums returning through
      Flickr with a belt of JPG's for ffffound,
      who made fire in MS paint intels or drank martinis in
      Silicon Valley, death, or purgatoried their
      inbox night after night
      with Delicious, with Dashboard, with waking nightmares, Re-
      dbull and cock and endless balls online,
      incomparable blind; tweets of Amazon cloud and
      lightning in the modem leaping toward poles of
      Adam4Adam, illuminating all the mo-
      tionless world of internet Time between,
      P2P solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery
      dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops,
      storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon
      blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree
      vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brook-
      lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
      who chain lettered themselves to email for the endless
      ride from Blogspot to holy Blogger on common meme
      until the noise of hard drives and hamster dances brought
      them down shuddering mouse-wracked and
      battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance
      in the drear light of .ZIP,
      who sank all night in submarine light of Rhizome
      floated out and sat through the stale gif after
      noon in desolate Nastynets, listening to the crack
      of M.F Doom on the Pandora jukebox,
      who blogged continuously seventy hours from bed to
      desk to kitchen to toilet to desk to the App-
      le Store,
      lost battalion of platonic conversationalists tweeting
      on the stoops on fire escapes on windowsills
      on Empire State out of the moon,
      ROTFL screaming vomiting whispering facts
      and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks
      and shocks of YTMND's and YouTube's and Space Ghetto posts,
      whole intellects disgorged in Total Recall for seven days
      and nights with brilliant eyes, memes for the
      Ad Agency cast on the pavement,
      who vanished into nowhere Zen Live Journal leaving a
      trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Triangles
      In Space,
      suffering Email sweats and Terabyte disk-grind-
      ings and products of China under dirtstyle-with-
      drawal in notcot's bleak furnished room,
      who wandered around and around at midnight in the
      MySpace blog wondering where to go, and went,
      leaving no broken hearts,
      who lit cigarettes at keyboards keyboards keyboards racketing
      through spam toward lonesome render farms in Bang-
      ladesh night,
      who studied Zuckerberg Jobs Duke Nukem of the Disk telep-
      athy and bop DFA records because the cosmos in-
      stinctively vibrated at their fingers in iTunes,
      who loned it through the booksmarks of J.O.D.I seeking vis-
      ionary internet angels who were visionary internet
      angels,
      who thought they were only mad when Ballmer
      gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
      who jumped in bandwagons with the Dipset of No-
      homo on the impulse of winter midnight torrent
      light smalltown rain, pause
      who lounged hungry and lonesome through Gawker
      seeking news or sex or soap, and followed the
      brilliant Segal to converse about LOL Cats
      and Shaq, a hopeless task, and so took ship
      to The Pirate Bay,
      who disappeared into the volcanoes of GeoCities leaving
      behind nothing but the shadow of dancing gifs
      and the Java and ASP of poetry scattered in fire
      place Homested,
      who reappeared on the Kanye West Blog investigating the
      M.I.A in leggings and shorts with big pacifist
      eyes sexy in their dark skin sending out incom-
      prehensible Facebook invites,
      who burned Trapped in the Closet DVDs in their drives protesting
      the third season of Flavor of Love,
      who distributed Macromedia warez in Lime
      Wire weeping and undressing while the sirens
      of Lars Ulrich wailed them down, and wailed
      down Kazaa, and the Soulseak users also
      wailed,
      who broke down crying in blue screens of death naked
      and trembling before the machinery of other
      skeletons,
      who SurfTheChannel streamed The Wire and shrieked with delight
      in Aeron chairs for committing no crime but the shows
      own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
      who howled on their knees in the office and were
      dragged off the their desk waving Blackberrys and power-
      points,
      who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly
      fixed gear cyclists, and screamed with joy,
      who blew and were blown by those human seraphim,
      the hipsters, caresses of Bushwick and East Williamsburg
      love,
      who balled in the morning in the evenings in coffee
      shops and the Dolores parks and
      free WiFi spots scattering their semen freely to
      whomever come who may,
      who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up
      on the FAIL blog behind some Epic Fail subpar post
      when cute overload kitties and puppies came to pierce
      them with a sword,
      who lost their Lonelygirl15's to the three old shrews of fake
      Greg Goodfriend, the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar
      Ramesh Finders, the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb
      and Miles Beckett, the one eyed shrew that does nothing but
      sit on his ass and snip the intellectual golden
      threads of the craftsman's loom,
      who masturbaited ecstatic and insatiate with a bookmark list of
      free porn a Redtube vid a Megarotic NSFW vid a clip-
      hunter vid and fell off their chair, and continued along
      the floor and down the hall and ended fainting
      on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and
      come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
      who downloaded the snatches of a million girls trembling
      in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning
      but prepared to twitpic the snatch of the sun
      rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked
      in the lake,
      who went out whoring through miseed connections in Nerve.com
      stolen virgin-cards, Tuker Max, secret hero of these
      poems, cocksman and Adonis of Douchebag-joy
      to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls
      in empty lots & bougie backyards, movie house parties
      Beatrice Inns, on rooftops in cubicles or with
      gaunt Public Relations chicks in familiar L train lonely pet-
      ticoat upliftings & especially secret podcast-stations
      solipsisms of johns, & midtown alleys too,
      who faded out in vast sordid MPEGs, were Ctl Alt Deleted in
      dreams, woke on a sudden Brooklyn, and
      picked themselves up out of basements hung
      over with Heartless mp3s and horrors of Xzibit
      Yo Dawg memes & stumbled to unemploy-
      ment websites,
      who blogged all night with their socks full of crud on
      their OS X docks waiting for a door in the
      blogosphere to open to a room full of Friend Requests
      and YouTube hits,
      who listened to Suicidal Tendancies on the apartment
      cliff-banks of the Hudson under the World Trade Center
      blue floodlight of the boom & their heads shall
      be crowned with turban in oblivion,
      who ate the Value Meals of the Dollar Menu or digested
      the iced lumps at the muddy bottom of the rivers of
      McFlurry,
      who wept at My Chemical Romance and The Streets with their
      iPods full of Onion podcasts and bad music,
      whose files sat in dropboxes breathing in the darkness under the
      2GB file limit, and finally were downloaded to blare MSTRKRFT
      in their roommate cluttered lofts,
      who coughed up nakid pix on the fourth chan of /B/ crowned
      with flame wars under the carpal tunnel sky surrounded
      by orange crates of theology cliff notes,
      who typed all night rocking and rolling over lofty
      incantations which in the yellow morning were
      stanzas of gibberish,
      who saw rotten.com animals lung heart feet tail Seinfeld
      & Taco Bell dreaming of the Terri Schiavo
      kingdom,
      who plunged themselves under Whole Foods trucks looking for
      a wireless signal,
      who threw their Storm™ 9530's off the roof to V-Cast their ballot
      for Eternity outside of Technology, & alarm clocks
      fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
      who got on Gawker three times successively unsuccess-
      fully, gave up and were forced to open thrift
      stores where they thought they were growing
      old and cried,
      who were burned alive in their innocent Prada shoes
      on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse
      & the tanked-up clatter of the Ad Age Daily emails
      of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the
      fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinis-
      ter intelligent Art Directors, or were run down by the
      drunken taxicabs of Absolut Reality campaigns,
      who signed off the Media Bistro list this actually hap-
      pened and trolled away unknown and forgotten
      into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley
      ways & EBT, not even one free beer,
      who sang out of their Windows 7 in despair, fell out of
      the subway Windows XP, jumped in the filthy Red-
      hat, leaped on Snow Leopard, cried all over the manual,
      danced on broken Linux distros barefoot smashed
      5.25 floppies of nostalgic Mac OS
      7.1.2P floppies finished the Repair Disk Permissions and
      threw up groaning into the Disk Warrior, moans
      in their ears and the blast of colossal spindle
      whistles,
      who barreled down the information super highways of the past journeying
      to each other's keynote-Golgotha jail-broken-solitude
      webcast or TED talk incarnation,
      who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out
      if I was a venture capitalist or you were a venture capitalist or he was
      a venture capitalist to find out fiduciary,
      who journeyed to Shareware, who died with Shareware, who
      came back to Shareware & waited in vain for the 30 day free trail to expire, who
      watched over Shareware & brooded & loned with
      Shareware and finally went away to find the
      Freeware, & now Shareware is lonesome for her heroes,
      who fell on their knees in hopeless data recovery centers praying
      for their disk's salvation and light and breasts,
      until the geaks illuminated its data for a second,
      who crashed through their gMail accounts in jail broken iPhones waiting for
      impossible head hunters with golden heads and the
      charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet
      blues to Monster.com,
      who retired to Freelance to cultivate a habit, or became Production
      Assistants to tender QVC or What Not to Wear to Jersey Boys
      or Survivor auditions to the Black Entertainment Network or
      The New School to Narcissus to Portland to the
      bong rip or grave,
      who demanded sanity trials accusing the rap music videos of product
      placement & were left with their insanity & their
      hands & a hung jury,
      who threw vegan chicken salad at Hampshire lecturers on Feminism
      and subsequently presented themselves on the
      granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads
      and harlequin MySpace updates of suicide, demanding in-
      stantaneous lobotomy,
      and who were given instead the concrete void of bandwidth
      ConEd bills data roaming fees Cable Modem-
      repair sometime in between 10am-5pm buffers Internet Addicts Anonymous &
      amnesia,
      who in humorless protest erased only one symbolic
      Mr Show clip, resting briefly in catatonia,
      returning years later truly bald except for some black thick rimmed
      eye glasses, and Wondershozen and Arrested Development, to the visible Mad
      Men mondays of the awards of the Smallville of the
      Season 6,
      Two Girls One Cups's and Goatse's foetid
      JPG, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rock-
      ing and rolling in the midnight Pottery Barn-bench
      Ikea dolmen-realms of love, dream of life outdoors a night-
      mare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the
      moon,
      with Mamma Metasearch finally ******, and the last fantastic Altavista query
      flung out of the taskbar of Windows 98, and the last
      window closed at Y2K. and the last cellphone
      slammed at the wall in SMS relay and the last fur-
      nished room emptied down to the last piece of
      Design Within Reach furniture, a yellow paper 3M™ Post-it® stuck
      on a CRT monitor in the closet, and even that
      imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of
      hallucination
      ah, Fixoid, while you are not safe I am not safe, and
      now you're really in the total Au Bon Pain soup of
      the Internet
      and who therefore ran through the icy For Dummies books obsessed
      with Adobe Flash of the CS3 of the use
      of the Illustrator the Photoshop the After Effects & the In-
      Design align function,
      who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Bevel & Emboss
      through images juxtaposed, and trapped the
      Cory Arcangel style of the soul between 2 visual images
      and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun
      and dash of consciousness together jumping
      with sensation in AOL Instant Messen-
      ger
      to recreate the syntax and measure of poor Google
      searches and stand before YouTube speechless and intel-
      ligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet con-
      fessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm
      of thought in his naked and endless head,
      the Corey Worthington bum and Crank Dat beat in Time, unknown,
      yet putting down here what might be left to say
      in time come after death,
      and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of Melissa Smith in
      the P. Diddy shadow of Making The Band 3 and blew the
      suffering of America's naked mind for love into
      an OMFG soft synth
      cry that shivered the blogs down to their last Rapidshare upload
      with the absolute heart of the tweet of life butchered
      out of their own bodies good to read a thousand more
      tweets.
      II
      What sphinx of silicon and solder bashed open
      their skulls and ate up their brains and imagi-
      nation?
      Babbage! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unob
      tainable dollars! Children screaming inside the
      forum threads! Boys sobbing in WoW Raids! Old men
      weeping in the Drudge Report!
      Babbage! Babbage! Nightmare of Babbage! Babbage the
      loveless! Mental Babbage! Babbage the heavy
      judger of men!
      Babbage the incomprehensible prison! Babbage the
      crossbone soulless routers and Servers of
      sorrows! Babbage whose towers are judgment!
      Babbage the vast stone of flame war! Babbage the stun-
      ned governments!
      Babbage whose mind is pure machinery! Babbage whose
      blood is running money! Babbage whose fingers
      are ten armies! Babbage whose bandwidth is a canni-
      bal dynamo! Babbage whose ear is a smoking
      fuse!
      Babbage whose eyes are a thousand blind Windows!
      Babbage whose server racks stand in the data
      centers like endless Jehovahs! Babbage whose fac-
      tories dream and croak in the fog! Babbage whose
      antennae and satellites crown the cities!
      Babbage whose love is endless gigahertz and megabytes! Babbage
      whose soul is electricity and banks! Babbage
      whose poverty is the specter of genius! Babbage
      whose fate is an Amazon cloud of sexless IP addresses!
      Babbage whose name is the Mind!
      Babbage in whom I sit lonely! Babbage in whom I dream
      Angels! Crazy in Babbage! Cocksucker in
      Babbage! Lacklove and manless in Babbage!
      Babbage who entered my soul early! Babbage in whom
      I am a consciousness without a body! Babbage
      who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy!
      Babbage whom I abandon! Wake up in Babbage!
      Light streaming out of the sky!
      Babbage! Babbage! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs!
      skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic
      industries! spectral nations! invincible mad
      houses! virtual cocks! monstrous bombs!
      They broke their backs lifting Babbage to Heaven! Pave-
      ments, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to
      Heaven which exists and is everywhere about
      us!
      Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies!
      gone down the American river!
      Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole
      boatload of sensitive bullshit!
      Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions!
      gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! De-
      spairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides!
      Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on
      the rocks of internet Time!
      Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the
      wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell!
      They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving!
      carrying laptops! Down to the river! into the
      street!
      III
      Fixoid! I'm with you on the Internet
      where you're madder than I am
      I'm with you on the Internet
      where you must feel very strange
      I'm with you on the Internet
      where you imitate the shade of my mother
      I'm with you on the Internet
      where you've murdered your twelve Followers
      I'm with you on the Internet
      where you laugh at this invisible humor
      I'm with you on the Internet
      where we are great writers on the same dreadful
      cyberspace
      I'm with you on the Internet
      where your condition has become serious and
      is reported on your blog
      I'm with you on the Internet
      where the faculties of the skull no longer admit
      the worms of the senses
      I'm with you on the Internet
      where you drink the tea of the posts of the
      spinsters of TMZ
      I'm with you on the Internet
      where you pun in the tags of your Delicious the
      harpies of the bookmark
      I'm with you on the Internet
      where you scream in a straightjacket that you're
      losing the game of the actual Tumblarity of the
      abyss
      I'm with you on the Internet
      where you bang on the catatonic keyboard the soul
      is innocent and immortal it should never die
      ungodly in a well connected madhouse
      I'm with you on the Internet
      where fifty more shocks will never return your
      soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a
      cross in the void
      I'm with you on the Internet
      where you accuse your rebloggers of insanity and
      plot the NetArt socialist revolution against the
      fascist national Rhizome
      I'm with you on the Internet
      where you will split the heavens of Google Images
      and resurrect your living human image from the
      superhuman tomb
      I'm with you on the Internet
      where there are two-point-one-billion mad com-
      menters all together singing the final stanzas of Man in the Mirror
      I'm with you on the Internet
      where we hate and kiss the Internet under
      our bedsheets the Internet that blogs all
      night and won't let us sleep
      I'm with you on the Internet
      where we wake up electrified out of the coma
      by our own souls' computer fans roaring over the
      roof it's come to drop angelic bombs the
      hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls col-
      lapse O skinny legions run outside O starry
      spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is
      here O victory forget your underwear we're
      free
      I'm with you on the Internet
      in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-
      journey on the information super highway across the Atlantic in tears
      to the door of my apartment in the Eastern night

      Ryder Ripps, 2009
   
What makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere it hides a well.

Offline Golden Oxen

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For the Diner Poetry Shelf

                      Declining Public Appetite for Large Wars of Occupation
Dara Wier

Unlike before, unlike in prehistoric times, unlike during the good old days when the public’s appetite for large wars of occupation made for lively, crisp, contoured news reporting filled with edifying dramas of mass slaughters and satisfying banquets of blood and guts and sinew-strewn sidewalks. Those were the better days, the past times, the public knew a good large war when it got one, the public demanded large wars preferably of the kind which could be counted on to kill, wound, maim, ruin, displace, dislodge, condemn, crush and otherwise offensively rush to overrun someone else’s public and its otherwise starved for attention, truth be told, somewhat dull life in need of large injections of free misery, served sliced, sans ice, more rife, less priced, what’s that, that’s the roar of the gathering voice of the declining public appetite, who are these people who say such things, the public appetite for large wars, for large wars of occupation, declining public appetite for large wars, declining public large war occupation with increasingly larger public appetite for petit discrete minute wars, you hear it all the time, we need some more smaller wars, what we need is, it is just the tiny ticket, things will improve, wars will be smaller and much more satisfying, increasing public appetite for small wars of quasi-occupation, perhaps virtual occupation of insignificant size bundles of modalities, wars of all sizes, wars, little tapas wars, little miniature wars, pint-sized wars, little buddy wars, cute wars, skinny wars, pocket-sized wars, smart wars, starter wars, correctly sized airline travel-sized wars, tasting wars, war samplers and war jars just the right-sized war for a public whose whims are made up by a thug disguised as Palladium or a mass murderer whose job’s to justify whatever war a warrior wants cause a warrior’s purpose wants war or maybe not, maybe warriors talk just like artists, blaming it all on the muse of war or on weapons which when we have them we have to use them or so says the playwright who says an axe or a shotgun or maybe it was a bow and arrow or a missile of some kind, or a pretty little bomb, bomb, camouflaged in a dainty little napkin introduced in Act I must go off, or is it will go off, by the end of the story. Story’s end.

Dara Wier’s newest book is You Good Thing. She writes for flying-object.org.

Offline RE

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NEW BLOG FEATURE: Diner Library Database Catalogue
« Reply #33 on: May 18, 2013, 07:06:05 PM »
Elvis over on Economic Undertow is beginning Library of MUST READS for Doomers, and we also have our Library here inside the Diner, but neither one is Searchable in good DB formatting.

I contacted Peter about finding a good Widget for it, but so far nothing real good has turned up.

All on my Lonesome though, I figured out a means to drop a sortable Table onto the Diner Blog which will list out all the Diner's Top Selections for Collapse Reads.

If you wanna add to this Table, contact me via PM and I will let you know how to do it.

You can find the Catalogue at

http://www.doomsteaddiner.net/blog/library/

or just click the Library Button on the Top Menu of the Diner Blog.

RE
SAVE AS MANY AS YOU CAN

Offline RE

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Diner Library: Seeking Librarians
« Reply #34 on: May 19, 2013, 03:35:22 AM »
OK, I added a couple of the listings from Elvis' thread, and re-sorted the Table by Author to present on the Blog.

Any Diner can add to this Database, in fact at the moment anybody can, I have the Yahoo Group it is housed in Open for Membership, anybody can join.  You do need a Yahoo ID to join, but who doesn't have one of those already?

Anyhow, I encourage all Diners who are Collapse Reading Buffs who have favorite Books on Collapse to add to this Database.  I will Monitor it and periodically Update it on the Diner Blog, maybe once a month or so if it gets used by Diners/Undertowers.

Peter is working on finding a Widget we can use directly on the Diner for this, but until he locates one, this is quite serviceable.  Any entries made to this DB can be Exported as a CSV then moved to an In-House Diner DB, or in fact onto your own computer and you can make an Access DB to search and filter it as well.

You can also add good Collapse Websites to this DB, just put the name of the Blog under the Title Category.  Rest you can fudge as you see fit.

RE
SAVE AS MANY AS YOU CAN

Offline RE

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Bill Black with Chris Martenson on Kleptocracy
« Reply #35 on: May 25, 2013, 10:35:00 PM »
H/T Zero Hedge.  I haven't listened to them, but I am sure they are Worthy additions to the Library here.

RE

<a href="http://www.youtube.com/v/i9JfmzUtlWM?feature=player_embedded" target="_blank" class="new_win">http://www.youtube.com/v/i9JfmzUtlWM?feature=player_embedded</a>

Part II is Premium, you gotta pay your dues to Chris to listen to this one.

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SAVE AS MANY AS YOU CAN

Offline Golden Oxen

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Re: Diner Library BLASPHEMY
« Reply #36 on: June 16, 2013, 07:22:41 AM »

  Blasphemy
By Matt Sumpter

            A dog’s grave: mound of concrete
with a cross pressed in.
We are full-on sinful,
unbuttoning our Levi’s,

crouched behind a slash pile
in the Rathbone’s woods.
Scott pisses on it first,
then Harris, Owen, me. Steam fountains up

and forms sastrugi, greeting our faces
like sheer tongues,
like the dead who cannot bring
themselves to tell us, what you’ve feared is true.

None of us wonders
if there’s something worse
than Judgment: the years we’ll spend unmarried

to any home, praying in Potosi, Fayetteville, Batavia,
afraid that God
won’t care, afraid he will.

The worst thing we can think of, we’ve done,

then we walk home, grateful that the streetlights float
on darkness, indifferent as distant boats.


Matt Sumpter is an MFA candidate in Poetry at The Ohio State University, where he works as an Associate Poetry Editor for The Journal. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and an AWP Intro Journals Award, and he recently won the Crab Orchard Review Special Issues Feature Award in Poetry. Other work has appeared or is forthcoming in Boulevard, 32 Poems, Cincinnati Review, West Branch Wired, and elsewhere.

Offline Eddie

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Re: Diner Library
« Reply #37 on: June 26, 2013, 09:48:32 AM »
Another favorite poem that came to mind today.

On His Blindness

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg’d with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: “God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o’er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait.”

— John Milton
What makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere it hides a well.

Offline Golden Oxen

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Re: Diner Library: Reading Season
« Reply #38 on: June 27, 2013, 04:59:50 AM »
 by Nancy Grohol | June 23, 2013 · 11:28 am
Reading Season

By Sandy Stott

It seems a bit counterintuitive that, as the hours of daylight stretch out toward solstice and invite us outside, many of us also become expansive in our reading. But early summer brims with experiment; sleep seems distant kin of the other solstice. We sing the day elastic.

And so there seems also ample time for that sweetest of slow times, summer reading. Here is a briefly annotated list of summer books that also might have interested Henry, though, given his omnivorous reading appetite, that would be a safe wager in many instances.

This House of Sky – Ivan Doig: a lyrical first book by a noted writer of western landscapes (and behaviors), this memoir about Scottish immigrants making their way in another hard land is one of my favorites.

Reading the Mountains of Home – John Elder: Take Robert Frost’s great poem, “Directive,” topo maps of the mountains outside of Bristol, Vermont, Middlebury English professor, John Elder and ample stretches of time and combine them and you get a superb meditation on what it is to be guided into knowing a home landscape, which finally yields knowing home.

Teaching a Stone to Talk – Annie Dillard: Yes, this book of essays has knocked around for years, but it is still in print for good reason. Written after Dillard’s homage to Henry, A Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, these sometimes cryptic pieces were Dillard’s primary work. Some of the essays – Total Eclipse, Living Like Weasels, Teaching a Stone to Talk – have been heavily anthologized.

The Thoreau You Don’t Know – Robert Sullivan: Would Henry have picked up a book about himself? If he’d been introduced to Robert Sullivan’s earlier work, perhaps he would have. Sullivan is a quirky mind drawn to off-the-beaten-track subjects – see his books, Rats or The Meadowlands – and so his take on Thoreau avoids others’ tracks too. A very fine storyteller.

Seek – Denis Johnson: Join the essayist on his honeymoon in the Alaska bush, where he and his bride contract with a bush pilot notorious for coming down hard, aka, crashing. Finally, Johnson and wife are out there 100 miles from anyone to pan for gold so they can forge their own rings; the bush is not interested. What else do they learn? Other essays from the edges of our world, a number of them grim. One of the best stylists writing.

Street Haunting – Virginia Woolf’s classic essay about rambling the streets of London resonates – for me – with Thoreau’s daily footborne looks at his world, even as the settings are wildly different. Woolf’s writing makes more music than most writers can imagine.

And you, what are your summer reads? Send them on and we can compile a list loosely linked to Thoreau, who, after all, read globally.

                                             
Thoreau You Dont Know1
Thoreau You Dont Know1

http://thoreaufarm.org/2013/06/reading-season/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=reading-season   :icon_study:

Offline Surly1

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Re: Diner Library
« Reply #39 on: June 27, 2013, 07:46:47 AM »
Excellent recommendations, GO. Thanks.

Was wondering where you were this morning!
"It is difficult to write a paradiso when all the superficial indications are that you ought to write an apocalypse." -Ezra Pound

Offline Golden Oxen

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Re: Diner Library
« Reply #40 on: June 27, 2013, 08:07:25 AM »
Excellent recommendations, GO. Thanks.

Was wondering where you were this morning!

Hi Surly, My 3 grandchildren close by are out of school now for the summer, and my daughter is working, so I drop them off at summer camp and the YMCA every morning, and they have a way of conning me into McDonald's or the PancakeHouse for breakfast some mornings  on the way.  :exp-grin:

If I am not around for early coffee some mornings this summer, you know where I will be.  :laugh:
« Last Edit: June 27, 2013, 08:21:14 AM by Golden Oxen »

Offline Surly1

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Re: Diner Library
« Reply #41 on: June 27, 2013, 11:04:56 AM »
Excellent recommendations, GO. Thanks.

Was wondering where you were this morning!

Hi Surly, My 3 grandchildren close by are out of school now for the summer, and my daughter is working, so I drop them off at summer camp and the YMCA every morning, and they have a way of conning me into McDonald's or the PancakeHouse for breakfast some mornings  on the way.  :exp-grin:

If I am not around for early coffee some mornings this summer, you know where I will be.  :laugh:

Good to know. That will keep us from searching the FEMA camps in New England.
"It is difficult to write a paradiso when all the superficial indications are that you ought to write an apocalypse." -Ezra Pound

Offline Golden Oxen

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Re: Diner Library
« Reply #42 on: June 27, 2013, 02:51:49 PM »
Quote
Good to know. That will keep us from searching the FEMA camps in New England.

Please, don't rule that out completely Surly. If Big Brother has been reading my e-mails and listening in on my phone conversations, I got a problem.  :laugh: :exp-laugh: :-\ :'(

Offline Golden Oxen

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Re: Diner Library: Four Walls
« Reply #43 on: June 29, 2013, 05:32:51 AM »

Four Walls
By Zeeshan Sahil, translated from the Urdu by Faisal Siddiqui, Christopher Kennedy, and Mi Ditmar
March 15, 2013


You could call where we live
a house.
A room, very high up
with a very low ceiling,
one window, quite large,
and one very small door
that you could pass through
with your hands folded over your breast,
never lifting your feet from the floor.
You can look out this window, too,
out the window in the very high room
with the very low ceiling
if you like;
you can sleep without stretching your legs;
you can live never lifting your head.

Zeeshan Sahil was born on December 15, 1961 in Hyderabad, Sindh. He is one of the main poets who started writing prose poetry in Pakistan. During his lifetime he published eight collections of poetry in Urdu. All eight books have been published in a single volume, titled Saari Nazmain, and his ghazals were collected in another volume, Wajh-e Begangi, in 2011. He died on April 12, 2008 in Karachi.

Offline Golden Oxen

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Re: Diner Library: 1776
« Reply #44 on: July 17, 2013, 10:13:20 AM »

1776

July 10, 2013
Claire Sylvester Smith

In appraising a living tree, one must first consider its age. Then:

location, species, condition. If many trees of the same

kind grow in proximity, each loses value because it lacks

a distinctive gleam. Tree appraisal’s much simpler

if the tree is small enough still to be moved, in which case

and replanting a tree of the same type, girth and condition.

Still, we talk very earnestly about the price of things

that could never be uprooted or sold. We know seasons

are not arbitrary, from the rings and from the way they

remind us what it felt like to be us before. When this country was

becoming one, men wore white wigs, because their age

was a luxury, not a fact to be ashamed of or hide. A tree

in an industrial area is worth more than a tree in the woods.

a silent but looming reply. I like yelling very loud inside my house

and knowing no one can hear me, like when a tree falls

in the forest and somehow no money is lost, or when two

messengers pass on the road to each other’s masters, and say

nothing of the small sealed envelopes they carry near their chests.

 

 



 

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