Is My Destroyer and I Am Dumb

• Why Destroyer today? See last link in post.
• Like the compulsive attention slut and fool I am I posted all three days of the fourth slowest weekend of the year in Blegsylvania, please, those of you who were sensibly elsewhere than Blegsylvania, please check out the links to those posts below, there are some links to very good and important reads.
• Though if history repeats itself, the Monday after a three day weekend is as slow if not slower in Blegsylvania than the three days of the weekend themselves. See post title.
• Here, Friday's post.
• Here, Saturday's post.
• Here, Sunday's post.
• I bought this album in a Santa Cruz record store during our 2008 vacation in San Francisco/NoCal, it became the trip's soundtrack, Earthgirl won't remember, Planet can vouch:

• Here, a bleggalgaze of sorts.
• Pack my trunk.
• The painful consequences of liking fake subway maps.
• The art of the hyperreal soccer dive.
• There is no garden for us to return to: a bleggalgaze of sorts.
• I love Will Oldham's music, I love Dan Bejar's music, I love Bill Callahan's music, never once did I say to myself, hey, they are sons of Bob Dylan.
• I don't hate Bob Dylan's music. I don't want to hear Bob Dylan's music. Ever.
• This is true: I loved music before I discovered poetry, to this day, when I hear a song, I privilege sound over words. I love songs with dumb lyrics if the sound makes me tingle, I don't love songs with good lyrics that don't make my ears' toes curl. Fine metaphors abound.

[THE FORCE THAT THROUGH THE GREEN FUSE DRIVES THE FLOWER]

Dylan Thomas

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force the drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; the dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; the ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.