Sunday, January 31, 2021

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 aboveAMERICA: A ONE ACT PLAGUE
Causing untold pain to many of America’s richest traders!<<< Don't lionize the wannabe shitlordsFinance Capitalism v Industrial CapitalismThin 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 & sociopathsIronic little NazisMaggie's weekly links
Conceptual Overreach{ feuilleton }'s weekly linksPessoaLife cycles of a place
Everyone else has lost interest - a (not mine) playlistWhat is a monad?How do we write about political crises?Mayakovsky while Australia burns




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.


  1. 1)speaking of snow, here's a haiku from my years in erie county, ny

    white nights are bright nights
    snowflakes slant through street lights
    and muffle my footsteps

    2)and speaking of vegan choices, megan splawn writes

    One of my favorite dinnertime memories involves sweet potato fries and my daughter when she was just 2 years old. I had attempted oven-baked sweet potatoes fries as a side for dinner. After my daughter sat down to eat, she picked a limp sweet potato fry from her plate and sighed, “Oh how this wishes it were a french fry.”

    1. it's a haiku if the word 'and' is at the end of the second line instead of the beginning of the third

  2. I had a graduate course on Leibniz way back when. We decided that a monad was sort of like a dandelion floating in a vacuum.

  3. Re: 'Ironic Little Nazis'; Speer was quite charming, in a south German I-Am-Degreed-Professional-Guy sort of way.