Friday, January 25, 2013

Addressed Lambent Fops

Leaving one minute after I plunge this post's publish, Kensington-Frederick-Hagerstown-Hancock-Cumberland-Morgantown-Washington-Wheeling-Zanesville-Bamgier today, Bamgier-?-?-?-?-?-?-Delaware-Bamgier Saturday, Sunday Bamgier-Zanesville-Wheeling-Washington-Morgantown-Cumberland-Hancock-Hagerstown-Frederick-Kensington. So slideshows, if you look at only one of three if you've seen them before I'd look at Saturday's Sunday though Friday's Saturday might have dramatic Garrett County blizzard photos, the all-white buried windshield shot of a snowbank. Melodrama, self-serving, there, we're leaving one minute after I plunge this post's publish to get over the mountains before snow attacks. Soundtrack and travelog probably too, besides the slideshows. Yes, the ironies described here occurred to me too. By schooner to the past. Artificer. Relative absolutism. Thai fish estimates sea thicket is angry. There are no poems in either Poets or Poetry databases that contain the word oleaginous. Plumbing the origin of po-faced. Anthony's links of the week. A vase. Live 1970 Joni Mitchell - a friend mentioned his mysterious ambivalence towards Mitchell a few days ago (Bless Serendipity). I like Joni Mitchell's music though have never loved it, but it makes me think of NPR's mostly crappy Chongs for Aging Sildren radio show my doper friends liked to listen to, hosted by the icky oleaginous Dobert Rudley Aavis who STILL WON'T SHUT THE FUCK UP, WHEREVER HE IS AT THIS VERY MOMENT, HE WON'T SHUT THE FUCK UP, HE"S SLOBBERING HIMSELF, HE'S GIGGLING AT THE SLOBBERING, THE SHOW'S BEEN DEAD SINCE BEFORE THE DEATH OF MACNEIL/LEHRER AND DOBERT RUDLEY AAVIS STILL WON'T SHUT THE FUCK UP, STILL OOZES! Fine metaphors abound.


Lisa Robertson

To those whose city is taken give glass
pockets. To those whose quiver gapes give queens
and pace their limbs with flutes, ropes, cups of soft
juice. To those whose threshold vacillates give
that bruise the dust astonished. To falling
heroes give raucous sibyls’ polished knees.
To those who sip nectar give teeth. And if
they still sip nectar—give green chips of wood.
To swimmers give clocks or rank their hearts
among new satellites as you would
Garbo’s skint lip. To scholars, give dovecotes
to virgins, targets. Justice has nothing on them.
Virgil, sweetheart, even pretty fops need
justice. If they think not let creditors
flank them and watch their vigour quickly flag.
To exiled brides give tiny knives and beads
of mercury then rob them of prudence
for prudence is defunct. To those who fist
clouds, give powder.  And if their sullen
wallets flap, give nothing at all. Still
I have not addressed lambent fops
swathed in honey, the stuttering moon
Martyrs, Spartans, Sirens, Mumblers, Pawns
Ventriloquists—or your sweet ego

The Beloved Ego in the plummy light
is you. When I see you in that light
I desire all that has been kept from me
etcetera. For you. Since your rough shirt
reminds me of the first grass
pressing my hips and seeds heads
fringing the sky and the sky
swaying lightly to your scraped
breath, since I hear
panicked, my sister calling
since the gold leaves have all
been lost, and you are at least
several and variegated
I toss this slight thread back

The beloved ego on cold marble
blurs inscription. Hey Virgil
I think your clocked ardour is stuck
in the blue vein on my wrist. It stops
all judgement

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