Thursday, February 17, 2022

Four Thousand Years Later: Same Flowers, Same Bees

Writing this in google docs, I’m here because again my deepening klutz crisis worsening, I deleted two paragraphs I can’t possibly recreate, simplenote, I need a back button, here’s what I didn’t kill

Always fascinated how much Power generates so much noise urging you to tribalize while simultaneously trumpeting moral instruction that self-reliance the prime directive, we're so easy to manipulate and monotonize and monopolize, sing it with me by yourself

Then a paragraph relating this to Ryan Zimmerman’s retirement and (as if every post isn’t about) me and my uniforms but more importantly my not-uniform not-uniform uniforms, then a well-written but fappingly gratuitous reiteration that motherfucking Democrats won’t save your 401K-ass, they’ll be cashing a check when private equity squeezes your retirement zit for pus on the penny (tomorrow's update)

I have fresh links to make you angry while reminding you of your impotence to change anything but your own life and do change for happier but forgive myself when I fail, how’bout no today to links that make me angry that I want to share with you to anger you (though one had the good news it’s legal to kill animal poachers in parts of India starting yesterday), it’s important to me that you agree with me but reach that conclusion independently despite my exhortations to follow


Franz Wright

Unless a grain of wheat goes into the ground and dies, it remains nothing but a grain of wheat.
          —John 12:24

The ingredients gathered, a few small red tufts of the dream spoor per sheaf of Demeter’s blonde wheat, reaped in mourning, in silence, ground up with the pollen and mixed into white wine and honey. These stored forms of light taken under the ground. Taken by mouth. First those who by birth hold in secret the word; then placed on the tongues of the new ones, into whose ears it is meant to be whispered. Word murdered, forgotten so long ago, placed as a kiss on the lips of the soon-to-be-no-longer breathing who mean to enter death with open eyes, with mouths saying Death, what death? We have no word for it in our country where the bride of a brighter oblivion reigns. Not the purple-haired god but the child queen, the raped girl, come back from the dead hand in hand with the child she conceived there, returned in a resurrected virginity, wind through green wheat. Present-day site of a minor refinery in Christ. Although by the tenth generation already the children of light (“in their dark garments”) had trampled and smashed and generally raped the two thousand years of this precinct and its holy meal, intolerable mirror. Men who’d designed and bowed down to a law derived from the sayings of one who appeared here to say that the law is abolished, it is too late, all that is over with. Men who bungled their way through the next eighteen centuries before finally descending into the earth themselves, and what they found there they used, and we thank you for destroying the destroyers of the world. And here at the end this is as good as any other entrance to the underplace, journey of the fallen leaf back to the branch, to the bees of Eleusis among olive blossoms, untroubled among crimson wildflowers. Four thousand years later: same flowers, same bees.


  1. Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is worthy of respect, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if something is excellent or praiseworthy, think about these things. Phillippians 4:8


      In Neither Hope Nor Despair, Birds Fly
      40” x 60”, Acrylic on Canvas, 2022

      Christi Belcourt

    2. Christi Belcourt

      In neither hope nor despair, birds fly
      Arriving before snow melts
      Eating dried winter offerings
      Landing on ice covered puddles

      Only those in despair have need of hope.
      Birds have need of neither
      Trusting in the sun and moon
      Guided on pathways etched in air by those gone before.