Friday, September 20, 2019

O, said the watercolor teacher

  • I draw as turdstool as I sing (can't
  • sing stinks) but shucks love art I can please me (bigly
  • at the other place) fake
  • First yoga class, I need sit on five blankets lay head on two blankets until more flexible I'm all for more flexible going next week I'm so
  • I so wanna new tattoo my new club's logo
  • Remember the gag when I would capitalize Kind here?
  • I am telling you three times we are being reprogrammed
  • There are sound herd elimination principles in our sociopath overlords' legalization of sports betting and weed
  • a streaming service spent a billion to win *Friends*
  • More Shaughnessy's *Octopus Museum* one of two !!!!!!! reading experiences this year
  • wanna copy?
  • Why didn't you tell me (or me me or if I did why didn't I remember?) there's new (old) Bonnie Prince Billy?


Brenda Shaughnessy

That's not a windblown hair in your eyes, it's the roots curling through you, and you've died, but it's not forever. Nothing is.

Headstones little heads peeking out the blanket.

Wood swirl looks like a yoni, auto-sexual.

Bugs don't have to be what they're not, in their spirals and blind shapes overturning, eating you.

One fever broke and now you're cooling, resting. Becoming, like the rocks, the same self as ever, this time all the way through. It was never just you.

Being dead is a lot like being alive. You don't know enough to say it, or have no way to know. Or you don't know you know - that's what being alive is like.

You don't remember - sleep was a broken egg after heavy evening sex. Ferns parted like curtains, like legs, to let you through.

The streaks dried in the shape of a dragonfly.

The day was made for you to join the others. They are working already, points oscillating to drill collective holes in the Big Shroud everyone's making for everyone else equally.

Others like you, unlike you. They are thirsty, and smart, and aching, waiting for you to carry their load.


  1. i looked to see what you bought, and on the side of that was a link to a 2015 essay or listicle on the 25 classic progressive rock albums, dating from the time i was an enthusiast of such cultural artifacts - more than 1 were by jethro tull, but the one of those i have given least attention to, 'a passion play', was described in terms intriguing to me, as well as relevant to shaughnessy's poem here today - that is to say, an imaginative consideration of what might happen after death - i went on to look for it at youtube and discovered there is a website of annotations about it - to wit

    as robert louis stevenson noted, in a book i first read as a child in the old country, on the farm where my ancestors had lived for generations

    The world is so full of a number of things,
    I am sure we should all be as happy as kings.

    1. link to various editions of a child's garden of verses

  2. Thanks for the link in post chock full of links I *need* to read!

  3. Also too: much 'bliged for the Link; oh ayuh.

    For Herr von D.: Here's the functional equivalent of delivering a package at the corner store so it can be picked up later, when I say Kate Bush!