a woman came up to me when we were talking with the nurse at the desk at the rehab. in a loud declarative voice she said, "this is a Christian institution. get out!" and on she went. she said I was a sinner, it was shameful that I smoked. she told a nurse to go back to Africa. I looked at her but said nothing. she wondered why I didn't accept Jesus. someone from the rehab said to her, you're not greeting visitors to the rehab very nicely. all while we visited with my father, she could be heard bellowing away. when we left, she said, go away, get out of god. I can only assume she wasn't always that way. how'd you like it if she were your mother. I've seen another woman who's quite angry. she mutters away, occasionally directs invective towards you. another woman I've seen, not that old but confined to a wheelchair, seems always whimpering. sitting in front of the elevator, which needs a code punched in to operate, sobbing quietly and wishing she could go to some party on another floor. and my own father, getting a little better but still distant. it's all a lot to hold.

Laura Carter's blog is dead, a lot of that going around (but not here), and just a couple days ago she quotes a Richard Thompson/Fairport song. but this allows me the chance to remove her link, as earnest of my being one tough bastardo. I want bloggers to think, hey,if we don't play ball AHB will remove our sorry link from his dynamic list. I want readers of this blog to sense the power. tuesday, when the 39 millionth hit here occurs (I'm all tingly in anticipation), you can all give me a present.

I liked this by Stephen Vincent. it works as palliative to the wrongheaded approach Ron Silliman takes with the Weinberger piece. Silliman's so engrossed in matters of definition that he slides past whether the piece says/does/means anything. EW's piece is consistent with his oeuvre, direct, empassioned, caustic. Silliman's thinking is unnecessarily fuzzy, overthinking for the sake of overthinking. Silliman's blog is not so different from EW's piece. it's a pushing forward of integrity, let us say. not to say anyone can be consistent in that way, integrity is a goal not a stopping point. in discussing Weinberger's piece, Silliman hits a stopping point, the boundary he created. Silliman's questions of form, his push to define, perform acts of enclosure and limitation. Stephen Vincent's piece admits to emotion, admits to variety, admits to question. Silliman formalizes himself into a hole with his approach to Weinberger's piece. maybe Ron needs some narrative in his veins, as a sense of attachment. I mean, I presume Ron still reads from left to right, with new mystery and meaning with each word. like when he says the Paris Review seeks someone to fulfill Plimpton's shoes.

I think a poem needn't be a machine. many formulations exist, and some are mechanical, and some are not. Ron Silliman wonders if Weinberger's recent bruited piece is a poem. does the piece need limitation? the Pentagon Papers were not written or compiled as poem(s) but the method and effect resembles Weinberger's piece. or the piece in Gran Apachería by Ed Dorn, various and divergent quotes about Indians. if Weinberger says it's a poem, so it is. if EW didn't, then I guess you're on your own. just been reading about how Jung thought Ulysses was boring, he couldn't understand how someone could read such a large dull work, let alone write same. there was personal antipathy there between Joyce and Jung, but I think largely it's a matter, familiar enough, of one unable to let go a confining definition. I know Silliman's just looking under the hood, but not to let go by a fine isolated verisimilitude caught from the Penetralia of mystery, from being incapable of remaining content with half-knowledge. not to turn to ineffability, but not to limit and constrict with definition either.

long week. Beth, Erin and I all got sick. wednesday I was too sick to visit my father at the hospital. on thursday, Erin was tested for flu, strep and pneumonia. an xray at the hospital, where all 3 of us had to wear masks. negative to all tests, so muddle on. the hospital was done with my father on thursday. even with a fever and lung congestion, hey were done. we were too sick to take him, and he was too sick to be outside professional care, so he was put in a rehab facility. I spent thursday afternoon in bed, 1st shivering then sweating. felt better friday, thought I could see my father, but then Beth took a turn, vomitting. saturday, a springlike day, Beth and I finally got to see my father. his lungs still rattle, and he looks so frail. he was very tired. he hasn't been eating. sunday he was livelier, tho still rattling. I brought him a copy of American History magazine. a page had a photo of the Concord Minuteman, the statue that stands at Concord Bridge, all of a crow-flown mile away. Emerson's poem about the bridge was reprinted, which my father read aloud. he probably had to do that in grammar school. yesterday Beth wanted me to sleep in, sleep all day. I slept a lot, read a lot. she sat with my father, who has eaten a little. he won't be home anytime soon.