Get Rhythm

When Ambassadors Had Rhythm

I forgot to mention yesterday that I read this really great article in the Times about the Jazz Ambassadors program, which began around 1956. I don’t know why I was surprised to see the good that comes from music, even if the musicians were being used by the administration to one up the Russians. Those kids look pretty happy. Kind of made me proud of jazz music as a whole. Proud to answer phones at a jazz institution. Ha.

Bang, bang, bang on the door baby.

I can’t hear you.

Also, surfs up.

Does everyone have this album?

I’ve had this album for a while but sometimes things get lost in my itunes and I forget about them. But seeing as today was one of those lazy Sundays, I spent some time reorganizing my music library, which means that aside from Brian Wilson I was also listening to Belle & Sebastian, Buddy Holly, and Elvis Presley. I also listened to a bunch of Billy Joel in preparation for his show at Shea Stadium on July 18, which I successfully scored tickets to, but perhaps that isn’t so hip to admit. I really wish that some punk band would cover “Moving Out (Anthony’s Song).” Seems so apropos re: punk ethos. No?

Oh, and I also watched this video today:

I, too, am a regulator.  Just of a different sort.

Fits and Starts

When they left the earth we

all looked up with binoculars

& stared until we didn’t see

anything anymore, then we

went home & made potatoes

& watched it again on TV.

Engine blocks aerial,

expecting platform.

Inertial minding minds,

yet not comforted.

Hourly backwards verbal,

occurrences unclear in relay.

Who shook before ripe?

Who darkened the corners?

There is always so much

not to know. I don’t know

how we can expect anything

to last, chewy goo doesn’t

even hold your shoes together.

Rock and roll makes me feel

better and so do you.

Wednesday Afternoon Clean Up

Here are the notes that have been taped to the side of my printer at work for mostly likely the last year:


“The Blues can’t drive depression clear out of the house, but can drive it into the corners of any room where it’s being played.”

-Albert Murray, Jazz Historian


“Camp is an intellectually duplicitous posture derived from the idea that something indisputably bad can be transmuted into something good by virtue of the reader’s knowing, ‘ironic’ perspective.”

-I have no idea where I found this or why I wrote it down. Maybe it’s Susan Sontag, though I have never read her essay. Perhaps I will do that now.


And Doris Lessing book recommendations from before this happened:

The Summer Before the Dark

The 5th Child

The Golden Notebook

Guess I am going to Strand tonight. This is a good find though as I just finished my 5th Philip K. Dick book and am looking for something new.

These covers make me chuckle because this is not at all what I imagined while I was reading it.

Current soundtrack: King Khan and The Shrines. They are playing this Friday at the South Street Sea Port. Details here.

Oh, and this is amazing: I heart brooklyn vegan.

Real Folk Blues

Hey Wakeful Predator

At night we do

the nasty in some other dimension.

Our hairs mingle briefly.

The entire café was one muddy mess

but the back had a garden ceiling

and we kept saying how much we liked the light,

how the light was just right.

It’s a little late now,

all of the books have already been packed.

There are other red sofas in this city;

it’s elementary really.

The whisper jurisdiction ends

as soon as the door opens,

wood drinks wheat.

We could have watered avocado pits,

propped up by toothpicks.

We could have found

somewhere to set the glass.

Caution Horses

Sometimes, looking back, I realize that I knew so much more about what I was doing then without even knowing it. It’s those curious circles, keeping one out but close by. I watch everything without being anything. It’s peculiar because this isn’t waiting. Waiting is the wrong way to think about it I think.

Caution Horses

The light & unlight.

The five second grace

outside, thronged electrified.

The paved-parted middle,

sun on both sides.

Let’s wrap the edge around

& pull the plastic handles in close.

Let’s carry our insides out.

Let’s line up with the others.

Let’s go to the dojo because we

aren’t sure what kind of mood we are in.

We can have it all.

Elevated express stops,

our hours of aluminum.

Craned centerfold in the center where I open.

Your spokes cross bridges.

They turn the bayeou,

in drawls of single counter space.

My heart is a large box with high sides

Bed-islands float down the dunking river

like snails in towering grass, in their deliberate radius

I can help you all,

gesturing phone-face.

Hips cautiously abbreviate full twists, gripping staple handles,

the underpants aquarium circles to and from metal boxes,

collecting food wrappers and plastic cups.

Representational haystack, its embered ends travel to the center

We practice straightened waves to each of the four corners,

winged regalia apostrophes the single file

We Sell Ice Here

Listen to what the tattoos that aren’t on my arms are saying

Club, club, cub

Aught, aught, evermore

Lachrymose mountains with headlines on top

That wire hanger has fallen over again

Conventional smells linger

Buttoned collars, buttoned bags

The center stomach uncoils and rises

She is no Elizabeth

He makes the face of a bull.

Something is changing even now

The lock bought, the lock locked.

Ghost of fireballs and carpeted walls

Primetime events insert, inserted

My nose overhears your nostalgia

I flush and flush all morning and walk the right of way.

Cotton jumps from boxes and coughs all night

Possessed of, anything whatever

Avant sleeping downs, the covered clothes canopy

We with either an “A” or “O”

and Mr. Buffalo, the self-propelled tightrope