HORSE THIEF BLOG

wild dreams of a new beginning

2012-01-30T18:30:00.001-08:00

www.wilddreamsofanewbeginning.blogspot.com

THIS LAND IS OUR LAND

2012-01-28T15:12:00.001-08:00

deer isle

2011-10-13T22:33:00.002-07:00

2011-10-01T14:51:00.001-07:00

growing up

2011-09-24T14:42:00.000-07:00

2011-09-11T19:09:00.000-07:00

STAGGER LEE - NICK CAVE by pasti223

jhaa[[ppty sepyte,nber

2011-09-10T20:29:00.000-07:00

2011-09-10T19:17:00.001-07:00

2011-09-10T08:59:00.001-07:00

only cause i reminded of the way the crazy ones always seem to float to the top

2011-09-10T08:27:00.001-07:00

2011-09-06T21:53:00.000-07:00

born again again

2011-09-05T15:00:00.001-07:00

havin' fun

2011-09-03T22:09:00.000-07:00

celebrating beginnings of new adventures and jumping into the deep

2011-08-25T17:59:00.001-07:00

2011-08-23T12:23:00.001-07:00

and fuck all ya'll

2011-08-21T19:28:00.001-07:00

my something in the way

2011-08-19T18:55:00.001-07:00

a la la lone

homeward

2011-08-02T23:18:00.000-07:00

ive tried in my way to be free

misters sister

2011-08-02T19:23:00.000-07:00

2011-07-27T00:02:00.001-07:00

lvngly btlggd

2011-07-26T23:38:00.001-07:00

fucked up to call it a year

2011-07-25T00:57:00.000-07:00

2011-07-22T18:43:00.000-07:00

Read full review of Oh Graveyard, You Can't Hold Me Always - VARIOUS / MISSISSIPPI on Boomkat.com ©

2011-07-20T21:26:00.001-07:00

2011-07-19T08:28:00.001-07:00

seems youre always gonna be a hopeless vouyer

2011-07-13T13:09:00.000-07:00

u mad

2011-07-06T20:53:00.001-07:00

2011-06-25T13:44:00.001-07:00

2011-06-04T01:16:00.001-07:00

Pacific
George Evans
Jacket 36 — 2008

The old poet stumbles on a pebble
along a trail above cliffs at Land’s End
thunder underfoot      he says
age reduces everything to sound if you still hear
sight if you can see      except for sudden death
life flutters down      turn by turn
fast at times but not like cliffs that only blur in fog
and drop without tricks or illusion

row on row the waves/ move landward

silver at the offing      a poet’s only silver      rumbles
the ear      rolling      the eye      gathers
the horizon in the noise
memory tries to remember      any moment
has value      they are leaving after all      time and the ocean
but only the ocean returns      through other eyes
bearing the memory of earth      breath of all that lived
this endless commencing after the crash


for George and Mary Oppen
San Francisco, 2008

MMHMM

2011-05-27T14:44:00.001-07:00

roy de forest

2011-05-21T13:15:00.000-07:00

in love with oblivion

2011-05-09T21:03:00.000-07:00

bad timing

2011-05-06T17:28:00.001-07:00

cabeza de vaca

2011-05-03T12:24:00.000-07:00

nuther luver

2011-04-23T15:46:00.000-07:00

BY THIER OWN WEIGHT

2011-04-17T12:35:00.000-07:00

tgif

2011-04-15T14:30:00.001-07:00

2 good friday songs

DOWN IN THE BOONDOCKS

2011-04-10T13:30:00.001-07:00

DOWN BY THE BOATHOUSE

2011-04-10T13:26:00.000-07:00

Its fun to take in the Pacific from the docks of the San Francisco Sea Scout Base just off the hideous wharf.

SCRAP VESSEL

2011-04-10T13:11:00.001-07:00

OUT OF THE GROUND INTO THE SKY OUT OF THE SKY INTO THE DIRT

2011-04-10T13:09:00.000-07:00

Being the flood season, we built our house in the trees

2011-04-06T21:27:00.000-07:00

2011-03-27T00:17:00.000-07:00

Endymion: So you do know, and can believe me. I was sleeping one evening on Latmos–—it was night–—I’d been wandering late, and was sleeping seated against a trunk. I woke up under the moon–—in my dream I’d shivered thinking I was there, in the clearing–—and I saw her. I saw her looking at me, with those slightly sidelong eyes, eyes steady, transparent, big within. I didn’t know it then, nor the next day, but I was already her thing, caught in the circle of her eyes, in the space she occupied, of the clearing, of the mountain. She smiled at me guardedly. I said ”Lady” to her. She frowned like a girl a bit wild, as if she’d understood I was stupefied, […] and, stretching out her hand, she touched my hair. She touched me hesitantly, and smiled, an incredible smile, mortal. I nearly fell prostrate, I thought of all her names. ”You must never wake up,” she told me. ”You mustn’t move. I’ll come see you again.” And she went away through the clearing. When light came–—a light rather lived, veiled–—I looked from on high onto the plain and understood that never more would I live among men. I was no more one of them. I was waiting for the night.

From

The Flood, The Beast & The Witches

CESARE PAVESE

translation by TAG GALLAGHER

TO START A NEW CULT

2011-03-20T22:41:00.000-07:00

Ah, but I may as well, try and catch the wind.

2011-03-15T21:35:00.000-07:00

easy street

2011-03-15T21:24:00.001-07:00

there's a blur drizzle down the plateglass
as a neon swizzle stick stirrin up the sultry night air
and a yellow biscuit of a buttery cue ball moon
rollin' maverick across an obsidian sky
as the busses go groanin' and wheezin',
down on the corner I'm freezin';
on a restless boulevard at a midnight road
I'm across town from EASY STREET
- Tom Waits, Nighthawk Postcards (From Easy Street)

2011-03-11T11:34:00.001-08:00

PAPER BLOGS

2011-03-08T15:33:00.000-08:00

2011-03-07T17:34:00.001-08:00

DONT BE A TOURIST COME AND JOIN THE LOVERS' WAR

2011-03-05T12:31:00.000-08:00

WHAT KEEPS MANKIND ALIVE

2011-03-03T01:04:00.001-08:00

AS IF NOTHING HAPPENED

2011-03-01T01:15:00.000-08:00

ITS A WILD WORLD

2011-02-24T21:27:00.001-08:00

looks like a party to me

2011-02-18T13:44:00.000-08:00

BLOODLINE TOTEM POLES

2011-02-16T22:59:00.000-08:00

OFFICIALLY YOURS NOW.
CLICK HERE FOR FREE DOWNLOAD

2011-02-12T13:20:00.001-08:00

Finding the measure is finding the mantram,
is finding the moon, as index of measure,
is finding the moon's source;

                                         if that source
is Sun, finding the measure is finding
the natural articulation of ideas.

                                              The organism
of the macrocosm, the organism of language,
the organism of I combine in ceaseless naturing
to propagate a fourth,
                               the poem,
                                               from their trinity.

Style is death. Finding the measure is finding
a freedom from that death, a way out, a movement
forward.

             Finding the measure is finding the
specific music of the hour,
                                     the synchronous
consequence of the motion of the whole world.

2011-02-12T13:15:00.001-08:00

still

2011-02-03T23:40:00.000-08:00

in making a mix for a new friend out here, i realized that, in terms of new music, crystal stilts are still OK in my world. and they make amazing videos. like a true fan, i search the internet for newness. these days, to no avail. but this is a pretty good home job by an even bigger loser than myself.

$

A B R A C A D A B R A

2011-01-28T18:07:00.000-08:00

will nvr grow so old again

2011-01-27T20:36:00.001-08:00

CITY MOUSE MEETS COUNTRY MOUSE

2011-01-27T19:10:00.000-08:00

KAFKA ROW

2011-01-26T19:45:00.001-08:00

2011-01-24T01:17:00.001-08:00

KNOW WHEN TO FOLD 'EM

2011-01-15T03:57:00.000-08:00

no need to stay any longer than you want to

I HOPE IT DONT TURN AWAY

2011-01-14T00:40:00.000-08:00

LATE SEPTEMBER

2011-01-08T00:24:00.000-08:00

The mail truck goes down the coast
Carrying a single letter.
At the end of a long pier
The bored seagull lifts a leg now and then
And forgets to put it down.
There is a menace in the air
Of tragedies in the making.

Last night you thought you heard television
In the house next door.
You were sure it was some new
Horror they were reporting,
So you went out to find out.
Barefoot, wearing just shorts.
It was only the sea sounding weary
After so many lifetimes
Of pretending to be rushing off somewhere
And never getting anywhere.

This morning, it felt like Sunday.
The heavens did their part
By casting no shadow along the boardwalk
Or the row of vacant cottages,
Among them a small church
With a dozen gray tombstones huddled close
As if they, too, had the shivers.

2011-01-07T18:48:00.000-08:00

2011-01-02T22:32:00.001-08:00

fantastic voyages

2010-12-30T15:59:00.000-08:00

2010-12-19T17:17:00.000-08:00

2010-12-08T22:21:00.001-08:00

ONLY IN DREAMS

2010-12-05T23:20:00.000-08:00

HISTORY OF THE NIGHT

2010-12-05T23:02:00.001-08:00

Throughout the course of th generations
men constructed the night.
At first she was blindness;
thorns raking bare feet,
fear of wolves.
We shall never know who forged the word
for the interval of shadow
dividing the two twilights;
we shall never know in what age it came to mean
the starry hours.
Others created the myth.
They made her the mother of the unruffled Fates
that spin our destiny,
thev sacrificed black ewes to her, and the cock
who crows his own death.
The Chaldeans assigned to her twelve houses;
to Zeno, infinite words.
She took shape from Latin hexameters
and the terror of Pascal.
Luis de Leon saw in her the homeland
of his stricken soul.
Now we feel her to be inexhuastible
like an ancient wine
and no one can gaze on her without vertigo
and time has charged her with eternity.

And to think that she wouldn't exist
except for those fragile instruments, the eyes.
_ JORGE LUIS BORGES

THE STREETS

2010-12-04T18:54:00.000-08:00

MY SOUL IS IN THE STREETS
OF BUENOS AIRES
NOT THE GREEDY STREETS
JOSTLING WITH CROWDS AND TRAFFIC,
BUT THE NEIGHBORHOOD STREETS WHERE NOTHING IS HAPPENING,
ALMOST INVISIBLE BY FORCE OF HABIT,
RENDERED ETERNAL IN THE DIM LIGHT OF SUNSET,
AND THE ONES EVEN FARTHER OUT,
EMPTY OF COMFORTING TREES,
WHERE AUSTERE LITTLE HOUSES SCARCELY VENTURE,
OVERWHELMED BY DEATHLESS DISTANCES,
LOSING THEMSELVES IN THE DEEP EXPANSE
OF SKY AND PLAINS.
FOR THE SOLITARY ONE THEY ARE A PROMISE
BECAUSE THOUSANDS OF SINGULAR SOULDS INHABIT THEM,
UNIQUE BEFORE GOD AND IN TIME
AND NO DOUBT PRECIOUS.
TO THE WEST, THE NORTH, AND THE SOUTH
UNFOLD THE STREETS - AND THEY TOO ARE MY COUNTRY:
WITHIN THESE LINES I TRACE
MAY THEIR FLAGS FLY

-JORGES LUIS BORGES

MESHES OF THE AFTERNOON

2010-11-09T03:58:00.000-08:00

LONG TO DEPART TO WHERE I AM

2010-10-20T20:54:00.000-07:00

2010-10-16T16:48:00.000-07:00

Father studied theology through the mail
And this was exam time.
Mother knitted. I sat quietly with a book
Full of pictures. Night fell.
My hands grew cold touching the faces
Of dead kings and queens.

There was a black raincoat
in the upstairs bedroom
Swaying from the ceiling,
But what was it doing there?
Mother's long needles made quick crosses.
They were black
Like the inside of my head just then.

The pages I turned sounded like wings.
"The soul is a bird," he once said.
In my book full of pictures
A battle raged: lances and swords
Made a kind of wintry forest
With my heart spiked and bleeding in its branches
-Charles Simic

INSIDE OUTSIDE WITHIN WITH OUT

2010-10-16T16:31:00.000-07:00

2010-10-07T07:59:00.001-07:00

Essay On Style
Bob Perelman
For Steve Benson & Kit Robinson

(....)Getting up in the morning and looking down through a long ghastly rusty gate, I talked to the old guy down the street who was always watering his obsessional theories. Scuh! Now that I've broken the lock, I put my face down and enjoy it for a minute.(....)
Only if one has travelled in America does one realize that sublime beauty of landscape, far from being a spontaneous manifestation of nature, is the result of agreements painstakingly evolved during a long collaboration between man and his surroundings. Man naively admires the effects of his past achievements. Fortified by numerous examples of virtue, judicious remarks, and copious visions of the whole system, he wants fortunes, length of time, posterity, and tulips the preceding year.

How shall I then tell of the days we were too ill to stretch to the horizon. For food we chewed the food of mosses. For the rest, we waited.

So I wrote down four bars of a minuet and said to her: "See what an ass I am! I have begun a minuet and can't even finish the melody. Please be so kind as to finish it for me." She was positive she couldn't, but at last with great difficulty – something came, and indeed I was only too glad to see something come for once.

So memorable for its features, the eye at sudden death occurs to itself as a solitary spectator. The juice is cruelly violated by the dark in the darkness.

Courage is the strength to endure a clump of trees.

THE SKY DARKENS

2010-10-05T09:32:00.000-07:00

UP AGAINST THE ODDS

2010-09-30T22:21:00.001-07:00

(INTO) THE DARKNESS

2010-09-29T23:43:00.000-07:00

why

DREAD NOT

2010-09-16T06:57:00.000-07:00

NOT THIS ISLAND MUSIC

2010-09-05T23:43:00.000-07:00

the utopists are more baffled than the bafflers

CATCHING OUT

2010-09-05T21:07:00.001-07:00

let others worry for you

2010-08-29T18:14:00.000-07:00

my imovie debut. music to video, made from scratch on another penniless sunday morning. collected scenes from my travels over the past year.

ceremony

2010-08-29T10:31:00.000-07:00

2010-08-28T13:22:00.000-07:00

SOMETHINGS GOTTA GIVE

2010-08-27T15:52:00.000-07:00

THOSE WHO GET IT

2010-08-26T10:21:00.001-07:00

WESTWARD, HO!

2010-08-25T10:46:00.001-07:00

FINDING THE MEASURE

2010-08-15T21:47:00.000-07:00

I'M WITH YOU, ARLO

2010-08-14T20:30:00.001-07:00

too stupid gone to meet the simplest expectation

2010-08-08T13:00:00.001-07:00

ONLY IN A PICTURE LANGUAGE

2010-08-08T12:55:00.000-07:00

2010-08-01T16:08:00.001-07:00

Maximus to Gloucester, Letter 27 [withheld]

BY CHARLES OLSON

I come back to the geography of it,

the land falling off to the left

where my father shot his scabby golf

and the rest of us played baseball

into the summer darkness until no flies

could be seen and we came home

to our various piazzas where the women

buzzed

To the left the land fell to the city,

to the right, it fell to the sea

I was so young my first memory

is of a tent spread to feed lobsters

to Rexall conventioneers, and my father,

a man for kicks, came out of the tent roaring

with a bread-knife in his teeth to take care of

the druggist they’d told him had made a pass at

my mother, she laughing, so sure, as round

as her face, Hines pink and apple,

under one of those frame hats women then

This, is no bare incoming

of novel abstract form, this

is no welter or the forms

of those events, this,

Greeks, is the stopping

of the battle

It is the imposing

of all those antecedent predecessions, the precessions

of me, the generation of those facts

which are my words, it is coming

from all that I no longer am, yet am,

the slow westward motion of

more than I am

There is no strict personal order

for my inheritance.

No Greek will be able

to discriminate my body.

An American

is a complex of occasions,

themselves a geometry

of spatial nature.

I have this sense,

that I am one

with my skin

Plus this—plus this:

that forever the geography

which leans in

on me I compell

backwards I compell Gloucester

to yield, to

change

Polis

is this

2010-08-01T16:07:00.000-07:00

what the fuck happend to blogger

2010-07-12T21:47:00.001-07:00

it looks like fucking shit

STICK AROUND AND IT MAY SHOW

2010-07-12T21:41:00.003-07:00