It Was Like Ripping Open the Beehive with My Hands Again

 

I texted the above to Planet in Michigan (and twooted to you), that's Rachel Carson Conservation Park in Unity, Maryland

Planet marveled at the green, Michigan woods still not stirring Spring, it occurred to me as Earthgirl and I for *this* time on *this* hike (because we talk about it on every hike) talked about how much we love where we live that *one* major benefit of splitting time between the states is we would get two Springs a year, two Falls

Forrest Gander has a new volume (sic) out, I'm swinging by Politics and Prose today on way to Hilltop to buy, not only am I self-banned from rereading any novel I'm self-banned from rereading end-to-end chapbooks and books of poetry, here:

I hereby impose a self-ban on pretending to not want to be angry and pretending to feel guilty about it when I am
Why do humans think cats are unfriendly?
Go torture and kill an sentinent being today, it's fun!
The	fuck	is	wrong	with	people	Portrait of the United States as a developing country
The burden before the prince		Nationalism kills			Motherfucking crackers
Of course animals laugh
On centrist vacuousness		Assange		Lying to the ghost in the machine		Quantum music
I discovered yesterday that Major League Baseball changed its extra inning rules and now starts every extra inning with a runner on second base and even though I have lifted my self-ban on enjoying anger I am pleased to announce I can't summon a damn about this
Five characteristics of neoliberalism
Adjunct hell		Peter Hammill in lockdown				{ feuilleton }'s weekly links
The comedy of American communism
A few sentences on every Pynchon novel
The sad and beautiful world of Sparklehorse's Mark Linkous

BECKONED

Forrest Gander

At which point my grief-sounds ricocheted outside of language.

Something like a drifting swarm of bees.

At which point in the tetric silence that followed

I was swarmed by those bees and lost consciousness.

At which point there was no way out for me either.

At which point I carried on in a semi-coma, dreaming I was awake,

avoiding friends and puking, plucking stingers from my face and arms.

At which point her voice was pinned to a backdrop of vaporous color.

At which point the crane's bustles flared.

At which point, coming to, I knew I'd pay the whole flag-pull fare.

At which point the driver turned and said it doesn't need to be

your fault for it to break you.

At which point without any lurching commencement,

he began to play a vulture-bone flute.

At which point I grew old and it was like ripping open the beehive with my hands again.

At which point I conceived a realm more real than life.

At which point there was at least some possibility.

Some possibility, in which I didn't believe, of being with her once more.