I Am Going to Take My Last Nourishment of Measure from a Dark Blue Ripple

• Pruned the bloograals of the hibernating, unconscious, and/or dead
• Current score:

Living, as in stirred at least once last four months 157
Hibernating, unconscious, and/or dead 154

• Reminder: nobody is offed, if you were on bloograals you still are on bloograals
• I've moved you to one of two bliig cemeteries so your zombie-ass floats to the top should you fart
• If there is something/someone you think I'd like and/or should be reading please send me
• I have been touching the Egoslavian stations of late, but believe me, the >>deleted bleggalgaze<< (that >><< a major station itself) in tablet for this post will stay in tablet
• If you are Kinding me and me not you please let me know
• This station sacrosanct - I should wait until Monday to post posts I like, must post on Sunday, slowest traffic day of Egoslavian week
• today The Holiest Day in the American Year, motherfucking Helmetball's motherfucking collar on motherfucking all of you.... 

   

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A WAY TO MAKE A LIVING

James Wright

When I was a boy, a relative

Asked for me a job

At the Weeks Cemetery.

Think of all I could

Have raised that summer,

That money, and me

Living at home,

Fattening and getting

Ready to live my life

Out on my knees, humming,

Kneading up docks

And sumac from

Those flawless clerks-at-court, those beautiful

Grocers and judges, the polished

Dead of whom we make

So much.

I could have stayed there with them.

Cheap, too.

Imagine, never

To have turned

Wholly away from the classic

Cold, the hill, so laid

Out, measure by seemly measure clipped

And mown by old man Albright

The sexton. That would have been a hell of

A way to make a living.

Thank you, no.

I am going to take my last nourishment

Of measure from a dark blue

Ripple on swell on ripple that makes

Its own garlands.

My dead are the secret wine jars

Of Tyrian commercial travelers.

Their happiness is a lost beginning, their graves

Drift in and out of the Mediterranean.

One of these days

The immortals, clinging to a beam of sunlight

Under water, delighted by delicate crustaceans,

Will dance up thirty-foot walls of radiance,

And waken,

The sea shining on their shoulders, the fresh

Wine in their arms. Their ships have drifted away.

They are stars and snowflakes floating down

Into your hands, love.