Mute and Gorging, Never to Cease, Insatiable, Gorging and Mute

Flag from last post scanned into black and white (also my chromebook's current wallpaper)

Time to get tactile again. New boots, sticks fixed, tune daypacks, new tablet, old ink, clean pen, new triangle ruler in daypack in case I lose old triangle ruler (do not lose old triangular ruler, Jeff), if I can't read and writing a rut...

Laugh, my soul's faith based on the simple hard truth that I, who absorbs music first and best and music is *always* in my head regardless I'm listening to music or not, have the single worst singing voice of our lifetimes and fingers that can't play guitar and piano

Since I don't watch anything I haven't written about the black/white to color toggle that preoccupied me when I did watch things

I took a - I still don't have a word for this, why would I have a word for it having stopped doing it when I didn't have a word for it when I was doing it - two or so year old work of my art and black and whited it through the copier and wow, only me of course but wow

It will take me weeks if not months to remember techniques and it will never provide the solace and satisfaction and quiet my faith insists it can

Pick up new boots today, start breaking them in on the soft hikes of Michigan next week for the hard hikes of Maine the 2nd half of July, whether the watercolors, architect's ruler, fountain pen inks, and new Boorum and Pease quadille tablet go to either to be decided though there will be new art again, I am telling you three times I know my patterns and thwarted trajectories and surrender to their grace, my need for flags

Addiction Eyrie: The Viral Mint
Textbook manipulative sociopath
Our shitlords signal that Joe's usefulness is over
The Anxiety of Influencers
FRESH HELL				Maggie's weekly
*These* are the Top Ten rated MOCO restaurants?
I do vouch for Jewel of India in Hillandale
{ feuilleton }'s weekly				Child in the tree
Between knowing & not-knowing: Guston
Green sadness				Plans for sentences

AND STILL IT COMES

Thomas Lux

like a downhill brakes-burned freight train

full of pig iron ingots, full of lead

life-size statues of Richard Nixon,

like an avalanche of smoke and black fog

lashed by bent pins, the broken-off tips

of switchblade knives, the dust of dried offal,

remorseless, it comes, faster when you turn your back,

faster when you turn to face it,

like a fine rain, then colder showers,

then downpour to razor sleet, then egg-size hail,

fist-size, then jagged

laser, shrapnel hail

thudding and tearing like footsteps

of drunk gods or fathers; it comes

polite, loutish, assured, suave,

breathing through its mouth

(which is a hole eaten by a cave),

it comes like an elephant annoyed,

like a black mamba terrified, it slides

down the valley, grease on grease,

like fire eating birds’ nests,

like fire melting the fuzz

off a baby’s skull, still it comes: mute

and gorging, never

to cease, insatiable, gorging

and mute.