- Pjoepf of Vriecyh
- I'm a looter not a colluder hot hot hot
- in Trump omfging warrooms
- and true, Trump's best defense: I'm
- here to steal the copper pipes
- Everyone's fence
- provenance fuck
- be vig,
- downtown Carney, fuck is the problem
- Poem above started after hearing Dershowitz sound bite on top of the hour news on the radio past Sunday in the car driving home from hike with Earthgirl
- (all I got to do, hike w Earthgirl),
- Dershowitz trial-ballooning the Sure He's a Shit But Being a Shit Ain't Criminal Yet defense.
- The Insect Apocalypse Is Here.
- Life in the It's Too Late, Fuck It, Let's Rocketsled to Suicide Ocene
- whether you want it or not, the Gerbal Masters have decried it so
- Anarchy, security, hierarchy.
- Left Problems, nationalism, crisis.
- Is literary glory worth chasing?
- Enard interview.
- As the dead prey upon us.
- Hey, Earthgirl and I will be in Manhattan this coming Friday through midday Monday staying East Midtown, 1st and 49th.
- Saturday and Sunday during day Earthgirl in a workshop with Wendy Artin, so I'm walking.
- Suggestions where to walk for walk's sake and what to walk to for what's sake solicited, I'm good for fifteen miles a day, I'll have nine hours Saturday and nine hours Sunday.
- First song in my head when I wrote first draft poem above, second below.
THE POET CONTEMPLATES THE NATURE OF REALITY
On the side of the road a deer, frozen, frigid.
Go back to your life, the voice said.
What is my life? she wondered. For months she lost
herself in work—Freud said work is as important
as love to the soul—and at night she sat with a boy,
forcing him to practice his violin, helping him recite his notes.
Then the ice thawed and the deer came to life.
She saw her jump over the fence, she saw her in the twilight,
how free she looked. She saw her eyes shiny as marbles,
as much a part of this world as the fence a worker
pounds into the earth. At night she still sat with the boy.
He’s learning “Au Claire de la Lune.”
Do you know it? He has established a relationship
with his violin. He knows that it takes practice to master it:
the accuracy of each note, to wrestle his feelings to the listener.
But he’s impatient. Sometimes what he hears and feels
are not always the same. Again, the poet says.
She knows if he tries to silence his fervor, he might not ever know
who he is. The poet contemplates whether a deer can dream.
Rich blood-red berries on a branch, pachysandra in the garden.
A soft warm bed in the leaves.