I Must Get a New Bird and a New Immortality Box

• A fuck is running for president, his thrust, don't be mean to fucks.
• Surveillance Capitalism.
• Stop being mean? start fucking thanking your fucks you ungrateful shit.
• We are ruled by sociopaths.
• I ditched the digital notebooks
• Venezuela and Disaster Capitalism.
• am scritching in lighthouses
• Brazil and Disaster Capitalism. 
• inking without delete
• Concerning Moral Judgment and Moral Monsters.
• new lighthouse ink no pencils
• The difficulties Americans face with respect to their country's empire.
• clusterfuck I type
• Motherfucking Democrats (also too)
• same clusterfuck silencer yes
• Two headlines from this week.
• bleggalgaze on algae bloom of not my bleggalgazing lately mostly (also too)
• Avedon's links.
• the fuck I am doing
• New Sunn O))) albums coming this year, 
• and they are playing the Howard Theater on T St on Sunday April 28!
• Be kind to his mistakes.
• Anne Sexton born 91 years ago yesterday.

THE AMBITION BIRD

Anne Sexton
 

So it has come to this –

insomnia at 3:15 A.M.,

the clock tolling its engine

     

like a frog following

a sundial yet having an electric

seizure at the quarter hour.

    

The business of words keeps me awake.

I am drinking cocoa,

the warm brown mama.

    

I would like a simple life

yet all night I am laying

poems away in a long box.

    

It is my immortality box,

my lay-away plan,

my coffin.

     

All night dark wings

flopping in my heart.

Each an ambition bird.

    

The bird wants to be dropped

from a high place like Tallahatchie Bridge.

    

He wants to light a kitchen match

and immolate himself.

     

He wants to fly into the hand of Michelangelo

and come out painted on a ceiling.

    

He wants to pierce the hornet’s nest

and come out with a long godhead.

     

He wants to take bread and wine

and bring forth a man happily floating in the Caribbean.

     

He wants to be pressed out like a key

so he can unlock the Magi.

     

He wants to take leave among strangers

passing out bits of his heart like hors d’oeuvres.

     

He wants to die changing his clothes

and bolt for the sun like a diamond.

     

He wants, I want.

Dear God, wouldn’t it be

good enough just to drink cocoa?

    

I must get a new bird

and a new immortality box.

There is folly enough inside this one.