Friday, April 17, 2020

Canary w Sniffles

  • I intended this post to be anger-free (by my standards), we had a wonderful hike last beautiful evening


  • but then saw this morning fuckwit Bernie Sanders tweet that all student debt needs to be canceled to which I responded


  • Today's links tomorrow or Sunday or not at all
  • Yesterday was also Ian MacKaye's 58th birthday





[I don't think I'll catch plague but if I do plague wins]

Pjoepf of Vriecyh

Wednesday, April 15, 2020

A Monk Sealed into a Coffin

  • I don't have access to the high tech scanner at work and I am not driving to MicroCenter to buy a copier/scanner to replace the copier (no scanner) at home I never used and is now broken, so phone camera it is
  • Not having a working printer while working from a coach is not ideal, big-bed good scanner or not
  • My laptop's camera is at the bottom of the screen, I didn't notice until I had to fucking zoom from home because of plague, people see up my nose, +1
  • Self-portrait, yesterday, via phone camera, better here




  • Last time, I promise, left click, hover
  • Completely expected news: Obama, ordered, ordered Pete Klobuchar wetwork before Super Tuesday 
  • (he certainly was ordered to threaten Warren with wetwork, worked) 
  • today he endorsed Biden in a presentation that had Democrats weeping, that Saint Barack
  • No one will remember it Friday, Thursday, today
  • this plague, time's accelerating faster than our shitlords want, can't control
  • slower than our shitlords want, rent's due
  • Half April, all of May June July August September October, and four of those months have thirty-one days, tap your knuckles
  • I am telling you three times we are being reprogrammed, I typed decades of bullets but not fart for eras, fine metaphors abound




   




                  

GASLIGHT

Tom Raworth

a line of faces borders the strangler’s work
heavy european women
mist blows over dusty tropical plants
lit from beneath the leaves by a spotlight
mist in my mind a riffled deck
             
of cards or eccentrics
was i
a waterton animal my head
is not my own
           
poetry is neither swan nor owl
but worker, miner
digging each generation deeper
through the shit of its eaters
to the root – then up to the giant tomato
             
someone else’s song is always behind us
as we wake from a dream trying to remember
step onto a thumbtack
      
two worlds – we write the skin
the surface tension that holds
                                       you
                                       in
what we write is ever the past
                
curtain pulled back
a portrait behind it
is a room suddenly lit
      
looking out through the eyes
at a t.v. programme
of a monk sealed into a coffin
          
we close their eyes and ours
and still here the tune
     
moves on

Sunday, April 12, 2020

When the Time Has Passed to Prune the Rose or Caress the Cat

For years I've driven by a small parking lot on Zion Road (it's the road on the N in Cracklin in the map below of Montgomery County Maryland election districts circa 1800-1880) with a sign saying Blue Mash Nature Trail. Friday we hiked Rachel Carson Conservation Park (it's the pond and the stream just above on Zion before it meets Sundown), when driving home past the Blue Mash Nature Trail parking lot we decided to hike it yesterday.



  • (I chose this map instead of taking a photo of the Martinet Map SeatSix gave me a few giftmases ago because this one has today's roads for orientation, see Wheaton Triangle fellow mocomofos?)
  • The trail circles a closed landfill, completely flat, half-wooded, half-meadowed and open (is not for mid-summer full-sunned afternoons), and will be completely ticky, and is not particularly interesting, but it was a chance to explore a part of Montgomery County, my memory palace and box in box in box reminder that infinity is as large smaller and it is large larger
  • (See the creek that rises almost dead center of the map, above the word Rockville, and flows southwest to the Potomac, not Seneca, which serves as border between Medley and Rockville, the one below that? Muddy Branch, and its spring is in the backyard of the house I grew up in, SeatSix can vouch)
  • No one uses the terms Cracklin, Medley, or Berry, or has in the fifty years Moco has been my memory palace
  • (Serendipitously, yesterday morning a friend inadvertently put a Tommy Keene song in my head)



 






THE END

Mark Strand

Not every man knows what he shall sing at the end,
Watching the pier as the ship sails away, or what it will seem like
When he’s held by the sea’s roar, motionless, there at the end,
Or what he shall hope for once it is clear that he’ll never go back.

When the time has passed to prune the rose or caress the cat,
When the sunset torching the lawn and the full moon icing it down
No longer appear, not every man knows what he’ll discover instead.
When the weight of the past leans against nothing, and the sky

Is no more than remembered light, and the stories of cirrus
And cumulus come to a close, and all the birds are suspended in flight,
Not every man knows what is waiting for him, or what he shall sing
When the ship he is on slips into darkness, there at the end.