Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Blowholes in Rictus

Holyfuck, that photo makes me laugh out loud, it's launched me into the best mood I've had in a week. Forgive me my descents into the maudlin like I forgive me my descents into the maudlin, they produce, when molted out of, metaphors to float me for a month, and Lordy, there is no better metaphor in my brain for America in late terminal capitalism than the Washington Redskins, ownership and management.

Plus I'm busy, so one more, then links, poem, music....


Amy Beeder

              the plates are broken after just one meal:
plates that mimic lily pads or horseshoe crabs,
              swifts’ wings,
golden koi, whirlpools, blowholes in rictus:
              all smashed against the table’s edge—

. . . also our chef eschews pepper & salt
              for violets & vespers
& squid ink & honey from wasps
              rare lichen grown in local snow
authentic silt dark from the Nile or Tigris.

              Surely you know that poultry, if cooked right,
will cure most common psychic ills?
              It’s something to do with the feathers.


. . . but you’re hungry. Come in. Sit. Taste.
              There’s breast of swan for shame.

Try a quail tart for rage,
              macaw on poached orchids for boredom.

And we serve so many other things.
              There’s really nothing you can’t order:
goat’s feet, orange groves, prophets & smoke
              convent orphans playing violins
flavors of memory, winter & wax, angles of sun, extravagant claims . . .

              Don’t worry, there’s plenty—

it’s a mysterious feast you attend, but it offers
              an affable scent of the cauldron, the light of abundance poured
over every table & marvelous barstool    
Come in—


Now you’re getting the gist:
              at each table’s head that growing pile of shards
is not waste but homage to the potter.
              The world’s a dish to relish, to finish:

this conch afloat in broth
              a frilly and vertical eye  
though portent & probably tainted, is solace
              like these towers of loquats & glittering scales
or our bright pans’ brash mortal clanging.

              Blink back the sun and look inside.
Our tiny lights don’t at all resemble stars.  
              Come in, come sup. You’ll never feel full.


  1. At what point does a protest movement become an excuse for camping?

    Fuck me. Like living in a park in the middle of DC or NYC surrounded by cops just waiting for you to fuck up is like some charmed existence.

  2. Item the first: Yes, awesome Shahanannahanigans pic.

    Item the second: The apt description of YFWP's (aka The War Criminal Post) Michael Gerson, "Pastor Sanctimonious" needs to be spread far and wide. Like Santorum.

  3. Muchas linkas, and that is one of the finest photos in the history of recent history but that's what he gets for watching film on the Browns.