Saturday, August 25, 2018

These Aren't Tears Anyway Just Eye Gunk

  • The hardest six weeks of year at work now, I trigger easier which means I regret my workrage blurts here more frequently than the other forty-six weeks of the year.
  • My colleagues too, the six hardest weeks, being Kind shouldn't take effort regardless of office tier and doesn't for most, but the fuck with the innately unKind...
  • Like senescence, everyone distills into self oil when pressed.

  • I hate motherfucking Democrats.
  • The New Socialists. Psst. Bernie is not a socialist.
  • For the Night Poem 8 August 2010.
  • An Account of My Hut.
  • Dead Poets.
  • Ode to Gray
  • Planned to weed the blogrolls, move the moribund (and there are lots, Blegsylvania's ghost towns ghost-townier than ever) Moribund and Mor(e)ibund (a standard reaction to my hardest six weeks of work of the year), but McAfee blocks my access to editing the blogrolls, fine metaphors abounding.
  • The New York Times obit for Tom is lovely.
  • I'd misplaced my copy of Tom's Light & Shade, ordered from an online used books, it shipped me two, I offered to mail one back, they said don't worry, who wants the 2nd?


Tom Clark

It's a pity we have to suffer
The bluejay said to me with a wink
If any part of the body be cut off
No part of the soul perishes but
Is sucked into that soul that remains
In that which remains of the body
These aren't tears anyway just eye gunk
And you've always taught me to be brave
As the last kindly rays of February
Sun warm bare ruined plum tree choirs
And light them up with a gaggle of buds
From which a few white blossoms are just
Starting to pop open as traffic hums
And in this moment there is nothing lost

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