Up at 9 (had accidentally unplugged alarm clock last night). Listened to Klymaxx, Meeting In the Ladies Room (1984). Never realized/noticed they were an all-woman band — seems like the material was mostly original, w/ various collaborating producers (Jam/Lewis). Went out for diner breakfast, read quota of W&P. Moving if stage-managed scene of Prince Andre wounded alongside his romantic rival Kuragin. Bought packing boxes nearby. Back about 11. Read 40 p. Brecht - poems in exile, 1937-1938, many fragmentary. Poetics: “If we want to stand the test before the lowly/We must not, of course, write in a folksy manner./These folk/Are not folksy.” (644) Wish someone would have told Woody Guthrie. Bought a shirt for Monday at Banana Republic outlet (glad this wasn’t more difficult), shoelaces at local cobbler (I guess that’s still the word), had lunch. Bree went out around 3, I could or should have left to write somewhere, but stayed in culling and boxing books and CDs for Goodwill, & picked out a smaller batch to sell at Codex or Unnameable. It’s a drop in the bucket, but it all be a relief to divest myself of some post-language poetry and philosophy of mind that’s being weighing me down since the late ‘90s/early ‘00s. Listened to one disc (the only one I have) of a Judy Garland box; couple of nice piano-only Rodgers & Hart songs (verse of “The Most Beautiful Girl”), then CD 1 of Champs, one of many extant Monochrome Set retrospectives. (I enjoyed it, but decided to skip their show in Jersey City - if I’d already been out, I’d have gone the rest of the way; or if their original guitarist Lester Square were still playing.) Bree back around 7. I read to about p. 175 of Kimmelman - boring chapter on an Arctic photographer, interesting one in the “Philip Pearlstein paints a picture vein.” There’s a line in there I want to copy down, but it’s in the bedroom and Bree’s asleep. Took out recycling, went out for groceries. Typed up lyrics to “Our Hearts Do,” in the version I played Thursday - 1st song I’ve completed this year, it’s “done” but some weak lines could be improved. Listened to a few songs from Jon Caramica’s new-songs roundup in the Times. Solange, Summer Walker (both in a not-very-hooky R&B vein, I’m sure I’ll hear the Solange album at some point), Jackie Mendoza (no strong impression), Weezer (decent rock bridge), a 10 min. Branford Marsalis track w/ long Tynerish piano solo, Our Native Daughters (project w/ Rhiannon Giddens), Went out to Starbuck’s around 8:30, worked 90+ minutes on end of the copyright section of my preface, just to get my gears unstuck on the book after a few days off (plan to work several hrs. tomorrow, which didn’t happen today). Home, read 60 p. Coolidge. “poem composed of plankton [ ] poem made of rice” (96) - this, other moments about the ontology or mode of presentation/distribution of the poem, and the (unusually for Coolidge) corrosive doubt about the point of the whole project, surprisingly recalled that Anne Boyer piece about absurdly inconvenient ways to publish. (I think it’s in her UDP prose book, which I should read, but also need to take by on radical/revolutionary negation in light doses after DuBois’ Telegram). Stayed up pointlessly (online). Put on Craig Taborn, Avenging Angel, lights out 2:30.