Rising in Its Effect of What Motto We Call Peace Talks

We parked in the MARC lot across from Hershey's (which is another story) and walked the Avenues of Washington Grove since we didn't have time before lunch to go afar, only one for sale sign and a very not Washington Grove house, we walked by the Keese and Briggs and Hackett (who hated me for Audrey, I'd meet Audrey in Washington Grove after her parents dropped her off at Hackett's) and Morgan and Beall and Parks (not a very Washington Grove house though plenty of composters and beeboxhives in the yard) and Gordon houses I'd been in 50 years or more ago, we never looked when buying, I assumed we couldn't afford it, our financier insisted we buy down-county, if we'd bought in Washington Grove we wouldn't need drive to Michigan four times a year now, who knows what life that'd been, then after the walk drove around (literally) the elementary school I attended, my first thought that it's a work, anything and anytime one of my multiple self-surveillance devices relay to me the current narratives and zap my autotapping response. Spring be inging

The United States of Helmetball
Docking the ferry
War and imagination
Yinz don't like my ragging on your addiction to helmetball
Yesterday in copaganda
Why do corporations greenwash?
Credit and war				FRESH HELL
Taking stock and breaking bonds
Avedon Carol's occasional links
I must confess - I never know what wordpress will do with the grids I build in google sheets and c/p at pOj		2022 March 7				Random bleggalgazing of a sort, more times than not I luck out then delete
Ohle, pronounced O-lee		Hero's Journey				Day
Maggie's weekly				{ feuilleton }'s weekly
The Letters of Thom Gunn
The origins of Montgomery Village
The bible according to The Residents

RICH IN VITAMIN C

J.H. Prynne

Under her brow the snowy wing-case
      delivers truly the surprise
of days which slide under sunlight
          past loose glass in the door
      into the reflection of honour spread
through the incomplete, the trusted. So
      darkly the stain skips as a livery
of your pause like an apple pip,
      the baltic loved one who sleeps.
 
Or as syrup in a cloud, down below in
      the cup, you excuse each folded
cry of the finch's wit, this flush
      scattered over our slant of the
          day rocked in water, you say
      this much. A waver of attention at
the surface, shews the arch there and
          the purpose we really cut;
      an ounce down by the water, which
 
in cross-fire from injustice too large
      to hold he lets slither
                                            from starry fingers
      noting the herbal jolt of cordite
and its echo: is this our screen, on some
      street we hardly guessed could mark
an idea bred to idiocy by the clear
      sight-lines ahead. You come in
          by the same door, you carry
 
what cannot be left for its own
      sweet shimmer of reason, its false blood;
the same tint I hear with the pulse it touches
      and will not melt. Such shading
of the rose to its stock tips the bolt
      from the sky, rising in its effect of what
motto we call peace talks. And yes the
      quiet turn of your page is the day
          tilting so, faded in the light.