Addressed Lambent Fops

Leaving one minute after I plunge this post's publish, Kensington-Frederick-Hagerstown-Hancock-Cumberland-Morgantown-Washington-Wheeling-Zanesville-Bamgier today, Bamgier-?-?-?-?-?-?-Delaware-Bamgier Saturday, Sunday Bamgier-Zanesville-Wheeling-Washington-Morgantown-Cumberland-Hancock-Hagerstown-Frederick-Kensington. So slideshows, if you look at only one of three if you've seen them before I'd look at Saturday's Sunday though Friday's Saturday might have dramatic Garrett County blizzard photos, the all-white buried windshield shot of a snowbank. Melodrama, self-serving, there, we're leaving one minute after I plunge this post's publish to get over the mountains before snow attacks. Soundtrack and travelog probably too, besides the slideshows. Yes, the ironies described here occurred to me too. By schooner to the past. Artificer. Relative absolutism. Thai fish estimates sea thicket is angry. There are no poems in either Poets or Poetry databases that contain the word oleaginous. Plumbing the origin of po-faced. Anthony's links of the week. A vase. Live 1970 Joni Mitchell - a friend mentioned his mysterious ambivalence towards Mitchell a few days ago (Bless Serendipity). I like Joni Mitchell's music though have never loved it, but it makes me think of NPR's mostly crappy Chongs for Aging Sildren radio show my doper friends liked to listen to, hosted by the icky oleaginous Dobert Rudley Aavis who STILL WON'T SHUT THE FUCK UP, WHEREVER HE IS AT THIS VERY MOMENT, HE WON'T SHUT THE FUCK UP, HE"S SLOBBERING HIMSELF, HE'S GIGGLING AT THE SLOBBERING, THE SHOW'S BEEN DEAD SINCE BEFORE THE DEATH OF MACNEIL/LEHRER AND DOBERT RUDLEY AAVIS STILL WON'T SHUT THE FUCK UP, STILL OOZES! Fine metaphors abound.





HOW TO JUDGE

Lisa Robertson

To those whose city is taken give glass

pockets. To those whose quiver gapes give queens

and pace their limbs with flutes, ropes, cups of soft

juice. To those whose threshold vacillates give

that bruise the dust astonished. To falling

heroes give raucous sibyls’ polished knees.

To those who sip nectar give teeth. And if

they still sip nectar—give green chips of wood.

To swimmers give clocks or rank their hearts

among new satellites as you would

Garbo’s skint lip. To scholars, give dovecotes

to virgins, targets. Justice has nothing on them.

Virgil, sweetheart, even pretty fops need

justice. If they think not let creditors

flank them and watch their vigour quickly flag.

To exiled brides give tiny knives and beads

of mercury then rob them of prudence

for prudence is defunct. To those who fist

clouds, give powder.  And if their sullen

wallets flap, give nothing at all. Still

I have not addressed lambent fops

swathed in honey, the stuttering moon

Martyrs, Spartans, Sirens, Mumblers, Pawns

Ventriloquists—or your sweet ego

The Beloved Ego in the plummy light

is you. When I see you in that light

I desire all that has been kept from me

etcetera. For you. Since your rough shirt

reminds me of the first grass

pressing my hips and seeds heads

fringing the sky and the sky

swaying lightly to your scraped

breath, since I hear

panicked, my sister calling

since the gold leaves have all

been lost, and you are at least

several and variegated

I toss this slight thread back

The beloved ego on cold marble

blurs inscription. Hey Virgil

I think your clocked ardour is stuck

in the blue vein on my wrist. It stops

all judgement