The Shovel Says the Ink Is Not for Us

I said I welcomed snow abstractly not on my yard I will Sunday

in my beloved above ankles that saved my knees, stiff leather

uppers animal slaughtered, vegan boots suck my complicity

 

 

Only one installation yesterday and that a restoration and upgrade on a treeknot on Tobacco Farm Trail where Earthgirl leaves trolls. The rock floor I made last time and one of her trolls gone, the treeknot's floor collapsed and tree trunk be hollow, yo. Built a new rockfloor on what remains of treeknot's penthouse, a treeknot responsible for as much of its hollow that hollowed the tree. See poem above			AMERICA: A ONE ACT PLAGUE
Causing untold pain to many of America’s richest traders!	<<< Don't lionize the wannabe shitlords	Finance Capitalism v Industrial Capitalism	Thin Green Line
"I really hope Americans get rid of that dangerous right wing lunatic in congress, by which I mean all of the people in congress."	Crime fiction & sociopaths	Ironic little Nazis	Maggie's weekly links
Conceptual Overreach	{ feuilleton }'s weekly links	Pessoa	Life cycles of a place
Everyone else has lost interest - a (not mine) playlist	What is a monad?	How do we write about political crises?	Mayakovsky while Australia burns

 

 

EXCAVATION

Lukas Bacho

One afternoon a wet half-moon

             on the terrain below my lip:

mouth-blades splitting flesh

             to immortalize desire, sheets soiled

after the digging. I never knew

             ink could spill straight from the mouth

or dye toothpaste the color of  longing,

              and yet his typewriter carriage of a jaw

justifies anything but words. Here is the couch

             where my mother consoled my sister and me—

Madonna-of-the-Rocks style—after the yelling.

             The same bedrock she cocoons in to escape

the snore. I shouldn’t mistake warm spoon

             for parenthesis (a half-moon whose other half

is never far). One evening my lamp is a bright half-moon

             striking memory like a match,

begging proficiency in a language I mine

             from his collarbone. There is a pen that betweens

now and him. The pen says the ink is always

             flowing; the shovel says the ink is not for us.