Friday, August 18, 2023

My Love, I've Petitioned the Curator Who Has Acquired an Empty Chest Representing All the Poems You Will Now Never Write

Wednesday past I bought L & me tickets to Bonnie Prince Billy w Jon Langford at the gorgeous and intimate and wonderful 6th and I Street Synagogue in Chinatown on Saturday November 18, 2023, it's general admission so buy yourself a ticket here and join us for dinner Downtown then an excellent night of music! Please!

The paperback of *Mount Chicago,* when I held it in my hands in Politics and Prose, cheaply made, cheap page paper, cheap cover paper, paper yellow, font small, my eyes said NO! so so did I, I will continue on My Complicity Reader, bright white screen with sharp black letters, font size adjustible to my level of blindness. 

I will torture my eyes if a physical book as object worth it and I WANT THE PHYSICAL BOOK AS OBJECT TO BE WORTH IT, but as cheapass a book as object paperback *Mount Chicago* is, no no no (this is not a screed again the publisher or publisher's motives, it's a going-blind grump's who has ALWAYS WANTED THE BOOK AS OBJECT A CLOSE SECOND to what's written *in* the object gratuitously bitching about a shitty paperback requiring me to use My Complicity Reader as proxy-bitching about (my complicity) my going-blind). Jon Langford? Zombie, you still kicking? Send me your favorite Mekon song as of the second you read this if you read this and I'll post it!

"Not me," says the guy with a blog who'll be 65 in a year and ten days
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Rebecca Lindenberg

You’ll find labels describing what is gone:
an empress’s bones, a stolen painting
of a man in a feathered helmet
holding a flag-draped spear.
A vellum gospel, hidden somewhere long ago
forgotten, would have sat on that pedestal;
this glass cabinet could have kept the first
salts carried back from the Levant.
To help us comprehend the magnitude
of absence, huge rooms
lie empty of their wonders—the Colossus,
Babylon’s Hanging Gardens and
in this gallery, empty shelves enough to hold
all the scrolls of Alexandria.
My love, I’ve petitioned the curator
who has acquired an empty chest
representing all the poems you will
now never write. It will be kept with others
in the poet’s gallery. Next door,
a vacant room echoes with the spill
of jewels buried by a pirate who died
before disclosing their whereabouts.
I hope you don’t mind, but I have kept
a few of your pieces
for my private collection. I think
you know the ones I mean.

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