Bats, Lisps of Pride

In last night's fever dream I was reminded of the scene in Barth's Sot-Weed Factor (Barth being in my mind) when Ebenezer Cooke, upon landing in Maryland to take claim the plantation he inherited, stumbles upon a legal argument about private property and, fashioning himself a legal expert as well as poet, passionately argues for fairness to win and, with sanctimonious nobility, forfeits his rights to his fortune.

Me. Who'd you think I was talking about? After I lost my property, Obama screamed at me, calling me a pussy for expecting him to make decisions based on right and wrong. I've always loved fever dreams. Could do w/o the sore throat. In any case, I promised The Bats. Requests solicited and posted if I can find them:

UPDATE!

• Moral sums and inquiries. 
• On intervention. Please read the comments too. All other arguments considered, what I pivot on is that I cannot believe Corporate intervenes on anyone's behalf but its own. 
• On the above. On the above.
• Giving up smoking. All best! one way or the other.
• Toddler or 85? Fight the Either/Or-Man, man
• CWCF?
• Heh! Now do one for Democrats! 
• Just your run of the mill Satan. 
• But how would Boeing make money? 
• Congenital liar.
• Fuckface. And Obama's best weapon.
• Fuckface.
• Fuckfaces.
• Capitalism. 
• Stoke.
• While I enjoy the fever dreams, fevers also make me, in waves, furious, give me Bendii Syndrome-like outbursts, make me want to purge blogrolls of unKind borderline plagiarists, so until this blows over this is the last post until the next post, which it would have been anyway.
• Charles Wright. I confess he's never worked for me, but since I wield Kind like a kid holding his pointed finger like a death ray out the backseat window of a moving car and, bored, mow down everything - telephone poles, trees, barns, people - I'll try again.
• Barnes and Noble next.
• Collapse of the poetry economy.
• Many meanings can have one word.
  

WOOD'S EDGE

Brenda Hillman

Infinity lifted: 
a gasp of emeralds.
 
I thought I felt 
the tall night trees 
between them,
 
no exactitude, 
a wait not even 
known yet.
 
I held my violet up; 
no smell. 
It made a signal squeak 
inside, bats,
 
lisps of pride;
 
ah, their little things, 
their breath: lungs of a painting,
 
they swept me 
in four ways, their square
plans, as I have made 
a good square saying,
 
you I 
you not-I 
not-you I 
not-you not-I,
 
ritual of hope 
whose weight 
has not been measured—