Thursday, January 3, 2013

This Trace, If It Exists, Is Alms for Delusion

So if I make it through all of In Search of Lost Time in 2013 (L will be quizzing me weekly - she's gonna reread it with me, her third time through) I'll not have to buy a pint at any 2014 Thursday Night Pints, or so I bet last night at a Wednesday Night edition. Lively debate ensued what my debt payment will be, I gather what's to be discussed amongst them is payment weighted on what month I finally quit and tying the vigorish to circumstances I can control, circumstances I can't. In any case, I've strong incentive to finish. I need either get louder or quieter, I said, more active or shut-up. Someone, L said, once told me death to the either/or. Subjects Illtophay and personal, then brief but intense interrogation on what's with the block and alternating link-color format here. Vote was two like it, two don't. Everyone likes the absence and quiet of the free bingo center square of American politics. David Harvey interview. Assholes are like opinions. Free speech. When I saw the Praise Latvian Austerity article over the weekend at NYT I figured there would be a response at naked capitalism. Two, actually. Dissatisfaction City.  Things you might have missed. Boot and face. Did you know Washington DC has a professional soccer team? Bethesda. My drive to work this morningOut of gas in Potlatch. Dreams of failing. Three persons. The way to keep going in AntarticaNoise and syrup. On Messiaen's Quartet for End of Time. Flashback. Guess who I was listening to last night.


Ann Lauterbach

This trace, if it exists, is alms for delusion.   
An arch uncurls from the floor
scented with the scent of a tapestry, housed here.   
I recall the hour but not its passage
unless dream captures and ties it to sleep:
a fat bellhop smiles, shows me to the tower   
where I can watch the departure.
But some days settle so that nothing
crosses the horizon; stare as I will, no star   
needles the air. Now I am left
on the outskirts of a forest hemmed in by wheat   
where plump trees hide the image, its symmetry   
shot up and blown across the ground like feathers.   
The unicorn, the grail, blue and red wings   
of kneeling musicians, these are embroidered   
elsewhere. Perseverance was crowned.
Hope and Pity prayed for success.
How fast is this camera? Can it record a trace?   
There was a voyage. Four mounted horses   
strain against centuries.
To each is allotted: dust kicked up, smoke, plumage. 


  1. good morning , reading a little , pats for you .. .

  2. Apparently, POETRY KILLS, too. Gonna have to adjust the Kill-O-Matic.

  3. in reading a little ag. , early morning , the photo that you have added at the top reminds me of why we called my first cat dusty .. .