Perforations That Ought to Sound Like *Grieve* but Rhyme with *Give*

Another reminder this morning to let the previous day sit overnight if I have any doubts of its worth

Reminder: write to unwind: wind when wind good

Do I want to write about the new Kate Bush wave viz MSADI5G?

I type this sentence six days from David Thomas' birthday

I am telling *me* three times Jeff you find your re-programming too fascinating regardless my acknowledgment that's a crucial component of that reprogramming I cannot resist the chum

Kate Bush and Pere Ubu (and side-projects) since Day One the only two permanent members of My Sillyass Deserted Island Five Game and will always be (never had a third, or rather, there have been thirds but were the banished to one of the inner rings of rotating musicians who share chairs 3, 4, 5)

Someone tweeted a photo of a hand-written Jack Kerouac reading list and Shakespeare (again) and Homer (again) Gibbon (again) and Bible (again) and Wolfe (always) and (I will take *Look Homeward, Angel* (I know exactly where my copy is) to our two weeks in Maine in my backpack) and I wonder if anyone who saw it what percentage was the correct Wolfe versus thinking he meant to spell Woolf versus who's Wolfe and why always?

The previous sentence related to my re-programming because I feel utterly disinterested in and worse incapable of reading fiction in this moment that I type this sentence

I have not deliberately played any Kate Bush or any David Thomas project since their last birthdays by design and if either played as both must have I can't remember the last song I heard of either

I'm grass mowed, graying,

extract rents from me thirty

more years, Dear Shitlords

A self-portrait from a year or two ago, forewarning to self, I've put my red red and blue blue and yellow yellow watercolor tubes, brushes, fountain pens, architects triangle ruler, and gridded tablets bound and loose into my suitcase for our trip to Michigan a week from Saturday, laugh, the only way to stop thinking about it is to start again or not

Odds are strong this crackerasshole gonna be your emperor for life starting in January 2025
Laugh, IOZ from Axis Mundi hits the big time
What world is this? A Pandemic Phenomenology
What Jesus Christ (as opposed to Jesus Cracker) said about fags
New whine in old bottles
CLUSTERFUCK! Inside Your Fucking Washington Post's Social Media Meltdown!
STOP EATING ANIMALS!
I Am Still				Murnane
HEY! New music from 2/3rds of Sea and Cake!
My new crush is Jenny Hval

THE SIEVE

A.E. Stallings

I bought an antique sieve of hammered tin
For its decorative holes

Patterned like a flower, or a star exploding
At one of the poles.

I think of all it has sifted: flour and sugar,
Dust and light,

What must be ground so fine, so fine! to pass through –
Milled, contrite.

Light and time it has sifted, like a metal welkin
Of punctual stars,

The cold hieroglyphs of the constellations,
The raised scars

On one side of the thin disk, stigmata
Nubby as braille.

I hang it up like an arrow-pierced shield
In the hall, on a nail.

Or rather it is a deep tambourine
That shaken makes no

Music, but sifts the silence down like powdered
Sugar, like snow.

Even now something is falling, falling, dust
And Time, infinitive,

Through perforations that ought to sound like ‘grieve’
But rhyme with ‘give’.

TO SEE THE EARTH BEFORE THE END OF THE WORLD

Ed Roberson

People are grabbing at the chance to see
the earth before the end of the world,
the world’s death piece by piece each longer than we.

Some endings of the world overlap our lived
time, skidding for generations
to the crash scene of species extinction
the five minutes it takes for the plane to fall,
the mile ago it takes to stop the train,
the small bay        to coast the liner into the ground,

the line of title to a nation    until the land dies,
the continent uninhabitable.
That very subtlety of time between

large and small
Media note        people chasing glaciers
in retreat up their valleys        and the speed...

watched ice was speed made invisible,
now—        its days and a few feet further away,
a subtle collapse of time between large

and our small human extinction.
If I have a table
at this event, mine bears an ice sculpture.

Of whatever loss it is    it last as long as ice
does until it disappears        into its polar white
and melts        and the ground beneath it, into vapor,

into air.    All that once chased us and we
chased to a balance chasing back, tooth for spear,
knife for claw,
                         locks us in this grip
          we just now see
                                        our own lives taken by
taking them out.          Hunting the bear,
we hunt the glacier with the changes come
                of that choice.