Friday, March 2, 2012

canning involves brine and fish we simply don't have

I have a friend who was standing ten yards from Breitbart when he screamed at Occupiers to "stop raping people," I said last night at Thursday Night Pints. L said, he was as big an asshole as Limbaugh, have you heard what he's been saying about that Hilltop student? Yeah, I said, the boycott-Limbaugh's-sponsors posts in Left Blogosphere and facebook and twitter and stuff are up and outraged. K said, I noticed the corpse of Breitbart is the new chew toy for left/right tug-of-war. Sure, I said, the same people who are dancing on Breitbart's grave would be outraged when the right danced on, say, Glenn Greenwald's grave and the same people who would dance on Greenwald's grave are outraged at those people dancing on Breitbart's grave. You're not comparing Greenwald to Breitbart and Limbaugh are you, K, aghast, said. And by extension you and a Limbaugh fan, I asked. No, I continued, I mean yes too, I'm just saying do you want another drink.

to have been, instead

Stephen Motika

instead, insulted. to look, in green light. redact. can you read... the oracular, such indifference. failing in the halls of an unknown.

to have powered down. mission. some sort of calvacade, plane flight caucus to indifference. a mission, museum, the night in the unknown. a city.

raked forest leaves, consorted with compost fires, down in steam, walked an incline, slipped to fall. the clatter of bones on buried stones, on those leaves fallen, but not as fast as I fell.

in Turrell's dim light, I realized the failure of the art official. an artificial stance, an impossibility: to speak and listen simultaneously.

the train bed, we call them tracks, where two ties swim beneath. a gossip, these gadgets, soaked in white scrimmed preamble. I made the mistake of coming closer, again.

ihe rejection, a mastication of the brain, those thoughts that fuel the day. I can't, besides, canning involves brine and fish we simply don't have.

in the sea farm, large carp. in the lake, a new cat finds our resources, our swims, those precious summer waters, where the between marks space.

the train from platform; here, everything in an elevated series of windows, lighted, in yellow mirrored fashion. large tower rests on the ground. the pavement gives way, the grinding of breaks.

came across a few seats, edits, and large empty doors. there were paintings, an elderly man. a slipped space to look aside guards and walls. I can't think of how many steps it takes to escape.

platformed, clasped, we waited to circulate, encased, dined within curator's task, lips sown in a silence of those emeriti.

caustic, in bold approach, pallid lips, rouged face, nearly quaffed and ensconced. I edged the red, a rage lost in the linen weave, a time.


  1. Sweet, I'm now a philosopher, officially.

    Chemical fire, Hamas, Ricin, Organized crime, Islam. It's okay, just a blog.

  2. Multi-purpose link thanks, Mr. Red.

  3. Great stuff! I'm glad you're still with us. Keep up the great work.