Sunday, May 30, 2021

In View of the Great Consummation Which Awaits Us

Foundthetrailsignageremovedon stilecorner
of FernHollowandRachel Carsonthefuck
No vandaldidthisItwattedmocoparks
Huh?AreyouabandoningthetrailtoMD
97?Mocopark tweeter on dutysaid willgetbacktome

 


Theywon'tgetbacktomeYounow
canvoteinTexaswithagunpermit
butnotastudentIDFinemetaphorsabound
includingKidsintheHallreuniononBezos
PrimethethingsIfumeforgigglesFine
metaphorsaboundthisthesecondslowestholidayweekend
inBlegsylvaniasoIspenthoursonthis
postand tomorrowthehighestholybleggalgazingday


 

People's guide to the war industryAmerican colonialismObama's labor secretary joins anti-labor law firm
Since when did the Supreme Court defend free speech?Fossil FascismOligarch v Sheikh
The Republican Party's * Unconditional* Moment
You have a right to his opinionBiden To Continue Unpopular Trump-Obama-Bush-Clinton-Bush-Reagan-Carter-Ford-Nixon-Era Policy
ProtonMail, or: Everything sucks and I'm hopelessly complicitYou are a networkThe trouble with memes
Avedon Carol's occasional links{ feuilleton }'s weekly linksAre we cut out of universal morality?
Octavia Butler's 4 Rules for Predicting the Future


 

[THUS, WEARY OF LIFE]

William Carlos Williams

Thus, weary of life, in view of the great consummation which awaits us — tomorrow, we rush among our friends congratulating ourselves upon the joy soon to be. Thoughtless of evil we crush out the marrow of those about us with our heavy cars as we go happily from place to place. It seems that there is not time enough in which to speak the full of our exaltation. Only a day is left, one miserable day, before the world comes into its own. Let us hurry ! Why bother for this man or that ? In the offices of the great newspapers a mad joy reigns as they prepare the final extras. Rushing about, men bump each other into the whirring presses. How funny it seems. All thought of misery has left us. Why should we care ? Children laughingly fling themselves under the wheels of the street cars, airplanes crash gaily to the earth. Someone has written a poem.

Oh life, bizarre fowl, what color are your wings ? Green, blue, red, yellow, purple, white, brown, orange, black, grey ? In the imagination, flying above the wreck of ten thousand million souls, I see you departing sadly for the land of plants and insects, already far out to sea. (Thank you, I know well what I am plagiarising) Your great wings flap as you disappear in the distance over the pre-Columbian acres of floating weed.

The new cathedral overlooking the park, looked down from its towers today, with great eyes, and saw by the decorative lake a group of people staring curiously at the corpse of a suicide : Peaceful, dead young man, the money they have put into the stones has been spent to teach men of life’s austerity. You died and teach us the same lesson. You seem a cathedral, celebrant of the spring which shivers for me among the long black trees.