Somehow a Dog Has Taken Itself & Its Tail Considerably Away into Mountains or Sea or Sky, Leaving Behind: Me, Wag

While I celebrate serendipity, I hold in awe its ability to fuck with me. A few days ago a friend reminded me of Blood Meridian - a novel you must read if you haven't, forget all the post-Blood Meridian McCarthy you may have read or film adaptions of his novels you have seen. I commented in agreement about the graphic violence and mentioned a particularly gruesome scene in the novel. I went and found my paperback, was going to start Wednesday night but came down with a bug and high fever, can't do much but noodle online and, SHAZAM! look what gif serendipity just now gave me while I aimlessly looked for something else:





Holyfuck. There's nothing to do but offer a traditional fever dream song, my favorite Dream Song (forgive me, friends, this is the first time I've ever used the same line from a poem to title a post twice, but it's my fever), then another traditional fever dream song in tribute to serendipity, and then go back to sleep. Be back when.

DREAM SONG 14

John Berryman

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.   

After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,   

we ourselves flash and yearn,

and moreover my mother told me as a boy   

(repeatingly) ‘Ever to confess you’re bored   

means you have no

Inner Resources.’ I conclude now I have no   

inner resources, because I am heavy bored.

Peoples bore me,

literature bores me, especially great literature,   

Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes   

as bad as achilles,

who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.   

And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag   

and somehow a dog

has taken itself & its tail considerably away

into mountains or sea or sky, leaving            

behind: me, wag.

UPDATE!

DESIGN

Robert Frost

I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth--
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches' broth--
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.

What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?--
If design govern in a thing so small.