Time to Begin the Long Division

Full screen that, yo. Not so much filler - though filler it is - as bumping the previous post from top. My not-apologies for the manic, it, for me, hopefully won't end. We parked at top of hill, where Falls meets MacArthur, did the six mile Goldmine Loop circuit down to Great Falls and back: with all the rain of late we wanted to see the roar.

• Fuck it, I'd love to have been there for the roar. Would have blottered if given the chance. Fuck this getting old shit.
• Look how old Bobby is in the photo above. Look how young Bobby is in the video at bottom. I was young once too.
• Playlist. Never wanted to hear "Truckin" or "Casey Jones" but understand why they were there.
• As the dead prey upon us.
• A legacy of ruins.
• Meanwhile in Greece.
• Greece.
• The Magical Content Tree.
• A notice that I must investigate William Bronk, who I know nothing about.
• Midsummer.
• The light the dead see.

THE APPALACHIAN BOOK OF THE DEAD

Charles Wright

Sunday, September Sunday ... Outdoors,

Like an early page from The Appalachian Book of the Dead,   

Sunlight lavishes brilliance on every surface,

Doves settle, surreptitious angels, on tree limb and box branch,   

A crow calls, deep in its own darkness,

Something like water ticks on

Just there, beyond the horizon, just there, steady clock ...

Go in fear of abstractions ...

                                                       Well, possibly. Meanwhile,

They are the strata our bodies rise through, the sere veins   

Our skins rub off on.

For instance, whatever enlightenment there might be   

Housels compassion and affection, those two tributaries   

That river above our lives,

Whose waters we sense the sense of

                                                                   late at night, and later still.

Uneasy, suburbanized,

I drift from the lawn chair to the back porch to the dwarf orchard   

Testing the grass and border garden.

A stillness, as in the passageways of Paradise,

Bell jars the afternoon.

                                            Leaves, like ex votos, hang hard and shine   

Under the endlessness of heaven.

Such skeletal altars, such vacant sanctuary.

It always amazes me

How landscape recalibrates the stations of the dead,

How what we see jacks up

                                                  the odd quotient of what we don’t see,   

How God’s breath reconstitutes our walking up and walking down.   

First glimpse of autumn, stretched tight and snicked, a bad face lift,

Flicks in and flicks out,

                                            a virtual reality.

Time to begin the long division.