Rob Them of Prudence for Prudence Is Defunct

Olive just looked me in the eyes, meowed, took her left front paw and knocked a food dish off the kitchen counter, shattering it on the kitchen floor. She loves me

Speaking of my eyes, eye surgery tomorrow, weather-permitting, supposed to be mid-sixties today, might wake up tomorrow morning to six inches of snow. My father is Sarek anguishing on his marble bed, no one can see him, visitors forbidden because of the disease my wife and daughter will be infected with this week because motherfucking shitlords and their motherfucking servants want teachers to die rather than sacrifice profits (shitlords) or free daycare (parents). Planet and I think Sarek wants to die and we've given him our blessing multiple times both before the marble bed (both of us) and after the marble bed (Planet). I'm told the eye surgery will be painless though eyedoc phonebot sends a daily voicemail reminding me to be sure I've picked up my eye pain medicine. Hilltop just changed January because of the disease my wife and daughter will contract this week, the Library changed it's hours, all the work on student scheduling for Spring I did in December wiped out, received an email this morning from Bookkeeper telling me to have a new plan by yesterday, Bookkeeper a dope. Multiple beloveds urge me to scrape what few fucks I have left to give together, and I do. We hiked Mather Gorge, Billy Goat C, Carderock, Thursday past, beloved Potomac below

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HOW TO JUDGE

Lisa Robertson

To those whose city is taken give glass

pockets. To those whose quiver gapes give queens

and pace their limbs with flutes, ropes, cups of soft

juice. To those whose threshold vacillates give

that bruise the dust astonished. To falling

heroes give raucous sibyls’ polished knees.

To those who sip nectar give teeth. And if

they still sip nectar—give green chips of wood.

To swimmers give clocks or rank their hearts

among new satellites as you would

Garbo’s skint lip. To scholars, give dovecotes

to virgins, targets. Justice has nothing on them.

Virgil, sweetheart, even pretty fops need

justice. If they think not let creditors

flank them and watch their vigour quickly flag.

To exiled brides give tiny knives and beads

of mercury then rob them of prudence

for prudence is defunct. To those who fist

clouds, give powder. And if their sullen

wallets flap, give nothing at all. Still

I have not addressed lambent fops

swathed in honey, the stuttering moon

Martyrs, Spartans, Sirens, Mumblers, Pawns

Ventriloquists—or your sweet ego

 

The Beloved Ego in the plummy light

is you. When I see you in that light

I desire all that has been kept from me

etcetera. For you. Since your rough shirt

reminds me of the first grass

pressing my hips and seeds heads

fringing the sky and the sky

swaying lightly to your scraped

breath, since I hear

panicked, my sister calling

since the gold leaves have all

been lost, and you are at least

several and variegated

I toss this slight thread back

 

The beloved ego on cold marble

blurs inscription. Hey Virgil

I think your clocked ardour is stuck

in the blue vein on my wrist. It stops

all judgement