[Milton-L] Fetishizing Greatness, was Re: Is Paradise Lost (EXPLICIT)

jonnyangel junkopardner at comcast.net
Sun Apr 26 05:52:14 EDT 2009

On 4/25/09 1:30 PM, "James Rovira" <jamesrovira at gmail.com> wrote:

> One last bit about the poetic nature of the Tractatus.  I said earlier
> that Wittgenstein's "drawing of a cube [in proposition] 5.5423
> deserves special attention."  I realize now that if you were to take
> this drawing of a cube and give it line breaks consistent with modern
> poetry:
> ____________
> ____________
> ____________
> ____________
> ____________
> ____________
> ____________
> ____________
> ____________
> ____________
> ____________
> ____________
> you'd have a poem roughly akin to most of Billy Collins's or Charles
> Bukowski's work, though lacking some of their charm.
> Thanks very much for you indulgence.  I think I'll stop now as I don't
> believe it's possible to get any more ridiculous than this.
> Jim R

Well, let's fill those lines in and leave it at that.

The Great American Poem
by Billy Collins

If this were a novel,
it would begin with a character,
a man alone on a southbound train
or a young girl on a swing by a farmhouse.

And as the pages turned, you would be told
that it was morning or the dead of night,
and I, the narrator, would describe
for you the miscellaneous clouds over the farmhouse

and what the man was wearing on the train
right down to his red tartan scarf,
and the hat he tossed onto the rack above his head,
as well as the cows sliding past his window.

Eventually - one can only read so fast -
you would learn either that the train was bearing
the man back to the place of his birth
or that he was headed into the vast unknown,

and you might just tolerate all of this
as you waited patiently for shots to ring out
in a ravine where the man was hiding
or for a tall, raven-haired woman to appear in a doorway.

But this is a poem, not a novel,
and the only characters here are you and I,
alone in an imaginary room
which will disappear after a few more lines,

leaving us no time to point guns at one another
or toss all our clothes into a roaring fireplace.
I ask you: who needs the man on the train
and who cares what his black valise contains?

We have something better than all this turbulence
lurching toward some ruinous conclusion.
I mean the sound that we will hear
as soon as I stop writing and put down this pen.

I once heard someone compare it
to the sound of crickets in a field of wheat
or, more faintly, just the wind
over that field stirring things that we will never see.

by Charles Bukowski

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
you want to blow my book sales in

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
and we sleep together like
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do

My Shit's Fucked Up
By Warren Zevon


My take on Zevon¹s song from the "Life¹ll Kill Ya" album. I took some pretty
major liberties with my take on it, so all apologies.

I hadn¹t played 12 string in a long, long time so it¹s really rough. But I
just like the reality of hitting record and letting it fly, and I hope you
enjoy it.

¹Well, I went to the doctor
Said, "i¹m feeling kind of rough..."
"Let me break it to you son,
you¹re shit¹s fucked up!"
I said, "My shit¹s fucked up?!
Well, I don¹t see how!"
He said, "The shit that used to work,
Well, it won¹t work now!"

I had a dream; aw shucks, oh well
Now its all fucked up, its shot to hell
yea-eah, my shit¹s fucked up
It has to happen to the best of us
The rich folk suffer like the rest of us
It¹ll happen to you.

Well amazing grace
Has done passed you by
and you wake up every day
and you want to die
But you just can¹t quit

Let me break it on down
Its some fucked up shit.

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