Or: Ohio 97 to Ohio 13 to US 36 to Ohio 308 to US 36 to Howard-Dansville Road to US 62 to Ohio 514 to Ohio 226 to Ohio 3 to Market St to Ohio 83 to Britton Road to US 42 to Ohio 301 to Ohio 303 to Ohio 58 to West College Street to North Professor St to Union Street to Woodland Street to West College Street to Ohio 58 to Ohio 89 to Ohio 95 to Ohio 97 to Ohio 13 to US 36 to Ohio 308 to US 36 to Ohio 13 to Ohio 97.
- Thanks Lambert for the bump at Naked Capitalism. For those of you unfamiliar with the above latest in a four year series, we are visiting our daughter at college in Ohio, we take long drives together to get off campus, Earthgirl takes hundreds of photos hoping for a few she wants to paint, I provide a slideshow. All songs posted listened to on drive.
- The History of Fear, part five.
- Continuing on a theme started elsewhere: the neutering of the NSA archives.
- I both said I would try to go clusterfuck-free this weekend and expressed doubt that I could.
- Book of Lamentations, or: DSM-5 as dystopic novel.
- Maggie's weekly links.
- Moby Dicks.
- Cultosaurus Erectus.
- :-p in DC, Day One.
- Aliens, cats, consciousness.
- I am a quarter through Handke's Repetition, it's working, I'm resisting, it's working, I'm resisting a fraction less, it's working, I'm resisting a fraction less.....
- Aphex Twin, for those of you who do.
- Regulars can vouch I don't wait for these trips to Ohio to listen to Guided by Voices.
FATHER IN DRAWER
Mouthful of earth, hair half a century silvering, who buried him.
With what. Make a fist for heart. That is the size of it.
Also directives from our DNA.
The nature of his wound was the clock-cicada winding down.
He wound down.
July, vapid, humid: sails of sailboats swelled, yellow boxes
Of cigars from Cuba plumped. Ring fingers fattened for a spell.
Barges of coal bloomed in heat.
It was when the catfish were the only fish left living
In the Monongahela River.
Though there were (they swore) no angels left, one was stillbound in
The very drawer of salt and ache and rendering, its wings wrapped-in
By the slink from the strap
Of his second-wife’s pearl-satin slip, shimmering and still
As one herring left face-up in its brine and tin.
The nature of his wound was muscadine and terminal; he was easy
To take down as a porgy off the cold Atlantic coast.
In the old city of Brod, most of the few Jews left
Living may have been still at supper while he died.
That same July, his daughters’ scales came off in every brittle
Tinsel color, washing
To the next slow-yellowed river and the next, toward west,
This is the extent of that. I still have plenty heart.