It Is the Lumps and Trials That Tell Us Whether We Shall Be Known and Whether Our Fate Can Be Exemplary, Like a Star

Democrats are screaming for Kristi Noem's, not Stephen Miller's, head and think the asshole who got a medal from Obama a moral upgrade from larping Bovino, they are in on the game, everything's a work, I said to a professor who I took a polisci class from back in the early 90s and have maintained friendly contact with - we don't lunch but do yap when we run across the other on campus - and for the first time in the thirty-five years he outright agreed without qualifying that I'm a hyperbolic nutjob. My right eye



News yesterday that DHS is considering buying an empty warehouse just southwest of Hagerstown, Maryland, my home state, and converting it into a processing plant for dispatching the kidnapped to torture prisons in Africa and South America. We send support to whistle-blowing Minnesotans, I'm saving my physical risks for Maryland, only two cities near enough to Williamsport Maryland worth putting a rendering factory. My left eye



April cataract-yoinking on the left eye scheduled. I'd like to see in both eyes like my right eye, I'd rather simmer like my left eye than seethe like my right. B, my professor with the same name as my brother (and is the third B in my life, I'd never have met L without the second), said, I agree with you that Trump will die in office because strategy and helping him die is on the table, but you're still a hyperbolic nutjob. We are in total agreement on the sociopathic amorality of our shitlords. Derek Bailey born ninety-five years ago yesterday

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The Collected Letters of Jack Spicer
Reissue of the Week: The Style Council’s Café Bleu							🡇

THE ONE THING THAT CAN SAVE AMERICA

John Ashbery

Is anything central?

Orchards flung out on the land,

Urban forests, rustic plantations, knee-high hills?

Are place names central?

Elm Grove, Adcock Corner, Story Book Farm?

As they concur with a rush at eye level

Beating themselves into eyes which have had enough

Thank you, no more thank you.

And they come on like scenery mingled with darkness

The damp plains, overgrown suburbs,

Places of known civic pride, of civil obscurity.

 

These are connected to my version of America

But the juice is elsewhere.

This morning as I walked out of your room

After breakfast crosshatched with

Backward and forward glances, backward into light,

Forward into unfamiliar light,

Was it our doing, and was it

The material, the lumber of life, or of lives

We were measuring, counting?

A mood soon to be forgotten

In crossed girders of light, cool downtown shadow

In this morning that has seized us again?

 

I know that I braid too much my own

Snapped-off perceptions of things as they come to me.

They are private and always will be.

Where then are the private turns of event

Destined to bloom later like golden chimes

Released over a city from a highest tower?

The quirky things that happen to me, and I tell you,

And you know instantly what I mean?

What remote orchard reached by winding roads

Hides them? Where are these roots?

 

It is the lumps and trials

That tell us whether we shall be known

And whether our fate can be exemplary, like a star.

All the rest is waiting

For a letter that never arrives,

Day after day, the exasperation

Until finally you have ripped it open not knowing what it is,

The two envelope halves lying on a plate.

The message was wise, and seemingly

Dictated a long time ago.

Its truth is timeless, but its time has still

Not arrived, telling of danger, and the mostly limited

Steps that can be taken against danger

Now and in the future, in cool yards,

In quiet small houses in the country,

Our country, in fenced areas, in cool shady streets.