Sunday, July 15, 2018

the vague, slight unremarkable contents of emptying ashtrays








SUICIDE OF A MODERATE DICTATOR

Elizabeth Bishop

This is a day when truths will out, perhaps;
leak from the dangling telephone earphones
sapping the festooned switchboards’ strength;
fall from the windows, blow from off the sills,
—the vague, slight unremarkable contents
of emptying ash-trays; rub off on our fingers
like ink from the un-proof-read newspapers,
crocking the way the unfocused photographs
of crooked faces do that soil our coats,
our tropical-weight coats, like slapped-at moths.
  
Today’s a day when those who work
are idling. Those who played must work
and hurry, too, to get it done,
with little dignity or none.
The newspapers are sold; the kiosk shutters
crash down. But anyway, in the night
the headlines wrote themselves, see, on the streets
and sidewalks everywhere; a sediment’s splashed
even to the first floors of apartment houses.
  
This is a day that’s beautiful as well,
and warm and clear. At seven o’clock I saw
the dogs being walked along the famous beach
as usual, in a shiny gray-green dawn,
leaving their paw prints draining in the wet.
The line of breakers was steady and the pinkish,
segmented rainbow steadily hung above it.
At eight two little boys were flying kites.


Saturday, July 14, 2018

In Vulcan's Furnace Dipping My Burning Heart in Oil



  • A shadow on the other side of the glass.
  • Victimhood Culture.
  • Democrats and Russian conspiracies - I don't for a second think they are clueless, the motherfuckers.
  • Southern Maryland.
  • Western Maryland.
  • One Hillaryite Colleague argues the fucks in the two links above will eventually - soon! soon! - so embarrass upper-management white suburbanites the white suburbanites will reject the GOP out of moral repugnance, and no.
  • IATY3TWABR.
  • Me First! Me Always! constantly algorithmed exponentially across all platforms, ding.
  • I want to thank Nlancy Foreen and motherfucking MOCO Democrats for frosting the cake of my apostasies,
  • part of me wants the Motherfucking Corporate Carpetbagger to beat the Cranky Socialist in the recount so I can watch Nlancy Foreen drop out to complete the fucking circle.
  • All the girls think I'm a deer, I've got Doctor Sevrin ears. 
  • The distinction between contempt and loathing gapes wider daily.
  • Look at me, I'm finally enjoying The Clusterfuck, though ask me July 29th.






SAVAGE NOCTURNE

Joseph Ceravolo

Do you think
because you're out
and I'm reading my palms
like a gypsy,
that you have freedom?

Maybe you do.
And I'm the one in Vulcan's furnace
dipping my burning heart in oil

while one drop of desire
would save my life.
Now that the coast is clear
and the Holy Ghost
is in my nerves; I look for you

but you're not here.



Friday, July 13, 2018

These Are the Words the Voice Was Repeating




This year's edition of the traditional post, odometer honest:

Fifty-eight today, this guy. When we met in 5th grade forty-nine years ago neither of us predicted the weirdest year of our lives would be 2018.
 
Always this: twenty-five years ago Landru was the first human not Earthgirl or me or a doctor/nurse to hold Planet.




   
*


   


And especially



Thursday, July 12, 2018

The Only Sound Is a Shovel









IN ANOTHER ROOM I AM DRINKING EGGS FROM A BOOT

Frank Stanford

What if the moon was essence of quinine
And high heels were a time of day
When certain birds bled
The chauffeur is telling the cook
The antler would pry into ice floes
Swim with a lamp
And we’d be shivering in a ditch
Biting through a black wing
There would be boats
There would be a dream country
The great quiet humming of the soul at night
The only sound is a shovel
Clearing a place for a mailbox