snaggle-toother, wart-peppered

• Mid-August to mid-September annually my hardest, angriest month of my work year, and this year, in plague, weirder as well as harder and angrier than normal, which is not why I am not writing in tablets but typing on screen but *is* why posts, per usual this month, angry, desperate, dark
• I'd slowed writing with ink in tablets before Maine and tried to write with ink in tablets in Maine, but no
• That I've settled on a note app that doesn't allow me change the font to serif or the font-size big enough to not squint my eyes but is rudimentary enough to meet 7/8ths of my needs plus it copy/pastes neatly into blooger and pOj means I must judge my current typing habits still in honeymoon, I've hated apps and programs after first infatuations before
• Then I investigate a simple How Do You Change Font in Simplenote search on Duck Duck Go and there's a Simplenotes wordpress blog with screenshots that imply fonts and font sizes ARE possible, meaning there *may* be a more complicated Simplenote that I'd take no time to learn, though the screenshot was simplenote on a mac
• Number one reason I'm typing - I can think and type faster than I can think and write
• Number two reason I'm typing - I can't read my handwriting even when I write slow so I can read it next morning
• Number three reason I'm typing: I'm a tablet cicada, will be other seasons
• This week's band from Jeff's tapes and CDs crates

• How fascist is Donald Trump? (disclosure: I know the author and Earthgirl knows the author but we didn't know we both knew the author t for years)
• Ur-fascism: Umberto Eco essay from 1995, I remember reading it then, Yves reminded me of it yesterday
• The big-tech extortion racket
• Weakness is provocative
• Plague and shitlords
• Reminder: on less-shittyism
• Motherfucking Democrats

[reparaphrasing]

Pjoepf of Vriecyh

Reparaphasing,
faith composts me, I donate
with my animal

bleat, peaceful in sleep
after fat meal of saddle,
bath of drying sweat

• The American non-voter
• On motherfucking Democrats
• 28 trillion tonnes of ice melt
• Maggie's weekly links
• { feuilleton }'s weekly links
• Meanwhile, at other place
• Robinson Jeffers and the hope of human extinction
• The end of literature, part three

 
courthouse steps

D.A. Powell

to say no more of art than that it makes, by its very distraction

                     a mode of abiding

accordingly, its variations:    each type of thread-and-piecework

                     named double engagement ring, log cabin, or broken dishes   

all built on the same geometric figures—

                                        precise interception of angle and line

so too each tale of love is rooted in that first tale:    the poet

                     descending to the underworld

                                        finally granted his shade, who'll follow him

only to disappear again.      perhaps one version has them reunite

                     affixed in their solo chromospheres the stars, which,

to the human eye, appear to overlap

substanceless love

                                        immune at last to gravity and time—

in texas (I might as well recount this as a story) there's a town

                     with a courthouse built on concrete and twisted iron

edified in red granite, capitals & architrave of red sandstone

with point and punch, a carver broached the effigy of his muse

                     he rendered her attractive features, down to the very blush

                                          of course she spurned him,

                  of course there was another to whom she turned

love should not be written in stone but written in water

                                        (I paraphrase the latin of catullus)

the sculptor carried on:    not just the face of his beloved

                     but the face of her other lover:

                                        snaggle-toothed, wart-peppered, pudgy

them both, made into ugly caricatures of themselves, as wanton

                     as the carver perceived them, and as lewd

                     well, craze and degenerate and crack:   the portraits hold

though, long since, the participants have dwindled into dirt

         

                     beautiful.      unbeautiful.      each with an aspect of exactness

tread light upon this pedestal.      dream instead of a time before

                     your love disfigured, a time

                                        withstanding even crass, wind-beaten time itself