Thursday, July 14, 2016

Clawing Back Small Shelter Hung with Screaming

Looked for a book on my shelves for Planet, found my copy of Brothers Karamazov. I just finished Ivan's Rebellion and Grand Inquisitor consecutive chapters. It's been at least a decade since I last read Dostoevsky after decades of reading Dostoevsky. I remembered his horse is the mystery of faith but forgot how relentlessly he tortures the bastard to death and resurrection, exactly what I like to say I need when I pretend I need flogging. Say that guy in the car was broke, broken, had to leave town, loved but must abandon the dog, took the dog to a cul-de-sac in a decent subdivision figuring the dog had a better chance at survival being found by a kid who goes home and says please than if the guy gave the dog to a shelter that kills if dog not adopted in two weeks. The fucking dream starts in the middle and I fucking wake up before I find out his motives - which is to say nothing more than I haven't tortured my faith to death and resurrection in never, though pretend floggings go on daily.

  • Which is to say I'm glad I found the Dostoevsky.
  • Olive and photographer ▲ night before last.
  • Title of today's post from this Tom Raworth poem.
  • Morton Feldman was due here, then I saw the cat: