Wednesday, October 7, 2020

a black dog lies in the road, panting

  • Trump *will* burn the house down, our shitlords know this
  • Our shitlords signaling - this could have been released in 1213, like the tax story - enough, time to consolidate gains, it's what Democratic potuses are for
  • they hope he (dies) loses, the fat bastard, before he burns the house down 
  • fatter, bastarder, our shitlords, golden in scotus
  • Triskelion bets made if Trump burns the house down (Triskelions bets made if he doesn't)

NEW JOHN CALE!








AUDADE WITH BURNING CITY

Ocean Vuong

South Vietnam, April 29, 1975: Armed Forces Radio played Irving Berlin’s “White Christmas” as a code to begin Operation Frequent Wind, the ultimate evacuation of American civilians and Vietnamese refugees by helicopter during the fall of Saigon.


            Milkflower petals on the street
                                                     like pieces of a girl’s dress.

May your days be merry and bright...

He fills a teacup with champagne, brings it to her lips.
            Open, he says.
                                        She opens.
                                                      Outside, a soldier spits out
            his cigarette as footsteps
                            fill the square like stones fallen from the sky. May all
                                         your Christmases be white as the traffic guard
            unstraps his holster.

                                        His hand running the hem
of  her white dress.
                            His black eyes.
            Her black hair.
                            A single candle.
                                        Their shadows: two wicks.

A military truck speeds through the intersection, the sound of children
                                        shrieking inside. A bicycle hurled
            through a store window. When the dust rises, a black dog
                            lies in the road, panting. Its hind legs
                                                                                   crushed into the shine
                                                       of a white Christmas.

On the nightstand, a sprig of magnolia expands like a secret heard
                                                                      for the first time.

The treetops glisten and children listen, the chief of police
                                facedown in a pool of Coca-Cola.
                                             A palm-sized photo of his father soaking
                beside his left ear.

The song moving through the city like a widow.
                A white ...    A white ...    I’m dreaming of a curtain of snow

                                                          falling from her shoulders.

Snow crackling against the window. Snow shredded

                                           with gunfire. Red sky.
                              Snow on the tanks rolling over the city walls.
A helicopter lifting the living just out of reach.

            The city so white it is ready for ink.

                                                     The radio saying run run run.
Milkflower petals on a black dog
                            like pieces of a girl’s dress.

May your days be merry and bright. She is saying
            something neither of them can hear. The hotel rocks
                        beneath them. The bed a field of ice
                                                                                 cracking.

Don’t worry, he says, as the first bomb brightens
                             their faces, my brothers have won the war
                                                                       and tomorrow ...    
                                             The lights go out.

I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming ...    
                                                            to hear sleigh bells in the snow ...    

In the square below: a nun, on fire,
                                            runs silently toward her god — 

                           Open, he says.
                                                         She opens.

4 comments:

  1. Yesterday at Groundhog Corner [St*dw*ck & W*tk*ns M*ll, across from the post office] I saw the groundhog for the first time in many months - sitting up on the sidewalk, looking toward the street

    Missus Charley was pleased to hear about this

    ReplyDelete
  2. A brown groundhog sat up on the sidewalk, watching

    ReplyDelete
  3. speaking of the life and death of dog and groundhog

    https://airbellowsanalog.blogspot.com/2009/07/groundhog-dog.html

    on the side of the page there is a quote from a prizewinning author -

    DEATH CANNOT HARM ME
    MORE THAN YOU HAVE HARMED ME,
    MY BELOVED LIFE.

    ---Louise Gluck, from her poem OCTOBER

    gluck appears once in the marginal quotes there - meher baba appears thrice

    speaking of the life and death of authors, the 'waterfall road' blogging stopped in january 2016

    ReplyDelete
  4. speaking of the life and death of dog and groundhog

    https://airbellowsanalog.blogspot.com/2009/07/groundhog-dog.html

    on the side of the page there is a quote from a prizewinning author -

    DEATH CANNOT HARM ME
    MORE THAN YOU HAVE HARMED ME,
    MY BELOVED LIFE.

    ---Louise Gluck, from her poem OCTOBER

    gluck appears once in the marginal quotes there - meher baba appears thrice

    speaking of the life and death of authors, the 'waterfall road' blogging stopped in january 2016

    ReplyDelete