cap'n beefheart fans scaring the hoes again
life rx 6 may 24
the nine of swords and a poem from Mary Ruefle’s Dunce
GENESIS
Oh, I said, this is going to be.
And it was.
Oh, I said, this will never happen.
But it did.
And a purple fog descended upon the land.
The roots of trees curled up.
The world was divided into two countries.
Every photograph taken in the first was of people.
Every photograph taken in the second showed none.
All of the girl children were named And.
All of the boy children named Then.
the aleatory
I wrote a poem called “First Day on the Bullshit Farm,” but I didn’t show it to anyone because I thought … the bullshit farm? Sarah. Nobody wants to hear about the bullshit farm. Like essentially every poem I write, it was yanked out of nothingness by its little ankle which I caught when two words rubbed together. Then the rubbing made a spark, and the spark burned away a hole in the sheet between words, and I looked through and I saw the poem. And what did I even mean by it? Well, the bullshit farm is the farm where all the bulls live. Living bulls are shitting bulls. There’s no better sign of life than dung. Whether shit is considered the primary export of the farm or not does bear somewhat on its naming. In the poem, the bulls were born with ghosts in their eyes. What did I mean by that? I don’t know, although in the moment, I saw the strange, shining eyes of bulls and thought that the shine must be the ghost trapped inside the eye. The bulls could not tell a woman from a casket propped up against a wall. Well. That is fairly self-explanatory. And next, they wanted to watch a wedding. I just realized this while I was writing—that what they most wanted to see was a wedding. And not even to shit on it, but for their own mysterious reasons.
That is an example of the mind. Very entertaining to listen to, but also uncertain and trying to get it right. (Get what right?? you wonder. Indeed. The mind is terribly vague about antecedents.) To shut it up, you have to hold it down with so much bread and butter that it can’t move anymore.
The essence of the nine of swords is this: thinking about a problem and solving it are two not especially related enterprises.
the assignment
If there is despair in your thoughts, stop thinking them.
writing prompt
Write about yr first day on the bullshit farm.
a chune
“My Head Is Only My House Unless It Rains” by Captain Beefheart
I didn’t listen to Captain Beefheart for a long time. I don’t remember why exactly, but I have the vague memory of getting into some one-sided conversation in the corner at a party with a guy who would not shut the fuck up about how much I would like Captain Beefheart. (Other bands that need to bring their hoe-scaring fans in line include CAN, Red Krayola, and King Crimson.) But maybe I just have an inherent perversity of opinion. Or it’s like how a friend of yours says, oh my god, you should meet my friend X, you guys would really hit it off, you’re so similar! And then they introduce you to the most mentally ill person you have ever met. IDK! Anyway, I am now speaking to my fellow hoes who got scared off of Beefheart because of some dissertation you heard at a party, there’s some really nice stuff in the mix. Some of those “going home” chord progressions. Some of that nice bare feet on a hardwood floor thing. I hope you enjoy this random video I found on YouTube of a guy’s house set to the song.
credits: small spells tarot deck by Rachel Howe
Dunce by Mary Ruefle
“My Head Is Only My House Unless It Rains” by Captain Beefheart
Dear diary, why does it try to autocorrect “Beefheart” to “Beefheat”? Is “beefheat” a common word on Substack? Also, I just realized that I chose a beef-y song to go along with My First Day On the Bullshit Farm. That’s what happens when you don’t think about it. XS