Monday, August 24, 2020

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


Pjoepf of Vriecyh

faith composts me, I donate
with my animal

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

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

1 comment:

  1. 1) caitlyn johnstone's analysis of the foolishness of 'lesser-evilism' - less shittyism - has made me aware for the first time of cthulu garfieldism - but unlike her i do not think voting for the less bad candidate is a waste of time -

    as william james might possibly have said, 'the universe is a committee' - similarly, the MICFiC is a committee, or a committee of committees - and who gets to be chairman might have some influence on what happens

    admittedly, not always a LOT of influence - see the thoughts of The Medium Lobster

    2)now this - a link to a performance of Petite Rouge - a Cajun Red Riding Hood - which i found while rambling round after seeing a photo of a blonde woman wearing a red riding hood while holding a red apple - apples do not appear in mike artell's telling of the tale, but hot sauce has an important function