Sunk Home, the True Key Slots to Its Matrix

I won't post here what's ignited my moleskine because I need and want to protect multiple parties' privacy. I can say entirely new galaxies in which to matrix my own complicity have been discovered, none of them good, all of them irresistibly juicy.

Hey! Look what Creamy brought us!

Walked to the door and dropped it. She loves us. She was at the party Sunday too.

Holyfuck! Look what I just found looking to complete a joke in links:

• Not satire.
• Corpocracy and justice.
• Suck it up.
• Invisible hand slaps invisible forehead.
• Yes.
• No (is the answer to the question in the sub-lede).
• How to start a revolution.
• Wah, you just winged me, see.
• You're right, I haven't written about Anthony Weiner. 
• Also.
• Media priorities.
• Creamy is the female of the three feral children of the mother who had the litter in our shed. She's the one we tried to convert to an indoor cat because her two brothers chase her when they see her. She's always been the best hunter of the three. She's a sweetheart and purr-machine.
• Bleggalgazing!
• Which isn't to say I'm not going to post what I'm not writing about here elsewhere (though in my scribbled calligraphy) or that I'm not going to write sideways here what I'm not writing about directly here.
• I love United, but I'm quickly dying re: Corporate Soccer. 
• Also, I've a Hilltop lurker(s). The catalytic incident is in real life, yo.
• Saw the police presence. 
• OK, two words: gloat; wetwork.
• Ideas of reference. 
• I remember being floored the first time I read White Noise. I remember Underworld boring me. DeLillo short stories, mostly old, out this Fall.
• Church of poetry.
• Church of women.
• Yes, that joke. I love XTC.
• Easy peasy.
• Struck dumb.
• Westerberg.

WEDDING THE LOCKSMITH'S DAUGHTER

Robin Robertson

The slow-grained slide to embed the blade 
of the key is a sheathing,
a gliding on graphite, pushing inside
to find the ribs of the lock.

Sunk home, the true key slots to its matrix;
geared, tight-fitting, they turn
together, shooting the spring-lock,
throwing the bolt. Dactyls, iambics--

the clinch of words--the hidden couplings
in the cased machine. A chime of sound
on sound: the way the sung note snibs on meaning

and holds. The lines engage and marry now,
their bells are keeping time;
the church doors close and open underground.