Elric yesterday provided me a long list of why this blog sucks - and I could have been more gracious in baiting him to comment on Epod. Believe me, I'm aware of just how much this blog sucks - you think I don't know that nobody gives a fuck about Robert Wyatt's music much less his birthday? you think I don't know that nobody gives a fuck about the drugs I took in the early 80s or about the ex-girlfriend who stole all my albums? don't know that all but a very few of you don't give a fuck about the poetry I post - but he didn't mention my cats - you think I don't know that nobody gives a fuck about my cats? Still, Momcat is inside, that's her, last night, on the right, next to her son Nap, the first time she's ever come inside. Forgive me, after living in our yard for at least a dozen years, after only letting us pet her the last two years, after only crawling into my lap once when I sat on the front stoop, this gets a blogpost.
Have I ever mentioned I love Bonnie Prince Billy? I know - you don't give a fuck.
LINES FOR WINTER
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.