When you snooze you snooze forever
Yeah, uh, take a look at it.
Just go on.
No, well, yeah.
No, not that—yep, there you go.
Once Upon a Time I Was
meow meow every year
till an unknown number of elders
possessed by some copacetic Chronic
earn some extra income to swim
in perfect ecstatic harmony with
a slow Saturday afternoon.
this plot of perseverance sprays
like pleasure boats across
inept domesticity. Obviously
being human, it is awkward.
Once upon a time, moving indefinitely
along an edge implied tiny
wild kittens escaping PBS
fear of radioactivity
flickering glandular affluence.
Ancient glaciers oozed light
through the general living room
of America, while an Amish person
in a dark moment considered
low-rise skinny jeans and a dolphin
escaped persecution to form
a unique but purely hypothetical
community full of frolic-like
empathetic aftersex plasma light.
These early bodies exploded
violently. In their wake
a vast overriding rule which
we felt as warmth and later
a junkie’s whisper-soft script
dealt with via white cats
behind wavy glass.
Snow on one side, the other
chopped up. Once upon a time
I was born in the ground.
If you are in the vicinity of Powderhorn Park in Minneapolis next Saturday, the 27th, at 4PM, you can see her and her crew (e.g. I will be there, shouting from a hidden place) read poems and march around the lake while a New Orleans jazz band plays the strains of planetary exhaustion and a little joy, too. Join us?
Lessons From What’s Poor - Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy
I’m an algorithm that reads my own emails and then determines what “media content” I want/need based on a variety of search parameters, like “sunday” and “just sitting here.”
I was recently asked or invited (not sure of right word) to join a collective of girl poets (Our Flow is Hard) in order to help them with the reading series they do. I’m really happy to be involved. I’m going to wear suspenders at the next event. My ex-girlfriend helped to start it, and I can feel her absence in the group. I don’t mean this in a yearning, romantic way. We’re still friends. What I mean is that she used to write rad emails and Facebook posts advertising the group’s events, and Elisabeth, Amelia, and others lament her absence. Carrie, I apologize for talking about you like you’re not in the room, but Our Flow is Hard misses you. The next event is essentially a book release party for Elisabeth Workman, whose work is garbled radio signals and search engine magic in the best way.
I really like not having to teach, but it is weird to have my semester organized only by the obligations I create for myself.
I was bitten on the finger by a rat, a domesticated rat, at the Humane Society this past week. Everything is fine, but still. That brings me to 1 cat bite, 4 jellyfish stings, and 1 rat bite for the summer. My animal attack stats are way up this year.
I assure you I did nothing aggressive or mean to either the rat or the cat in either case. I wasn’t mean to the jellyfish either, but I sort of don’t care if I was (not that I hope I was, shut up).
I really just don’t know is my official statement on almost everything.
I really like autumn, always have. Maybe that’ll stop someday. Every day I sit in the park and look at the water. I always bring a book, but usually put it down after reading a few pages.
COLORS OF THE NIGHT - REISTERSTOWN, MD, 2012
every house is a different kind of kaleidoscope
Shaun King has been going to work on this since day 1, never once trying to parlay it into some shameful “vote Democrat” plea (looking at you, Antonio French), and always investigating the connections of racist corruption and oppression going on in St. Louis/Ferguson. So if you’re going to follow somebody re: Ferguson on Twitter….
Things that should be read closely and remembered.
A long way down the cut stone corridor lie the ceremonial chambers. The doorway is unlit, the initiated alone know the complex’s plan mirrors the harvest constellations, that each lamp along the fences and central paths are positioned like the stars above, not as pathways. Over time they became useful as a way to draw the attention of interlopers away from sacred places, to fool the curious into walking into hazardous labyrinths, into chambers where they made the dreamwalk of sacrifices, unknowingly conducting themselves into the pits and traps of the tricking chambers, in darkness damp with blood. Some few such victims were necessary to preserve the holy aura of the temple precinct, without resorting to walls and locked gates which draw unseemly attention and are an affront to the gods. The temple hid no earthly riches, besides; only the greater secret of its hidden interior which could not be found but by those long trained to make their way through deadly traps with closed eyes.
The thin sand over the paving stones held no footprints, but catch the moonlight and prevent the necessity of torches on nights of the gibbous moon. The threshold of the long corridor is simple sandstone blocks, cut with the graffiti of generations of worshippers at the first holy sites, the only reminder that the current temple is a reconstruction. The air is humid in the stoneway, which leads downward on shallow sloping stairs, narrowing toward the bottom to prevent haste. Holding your hands against the walls, the entrant will feel the rough stone grow smooth and from the floor a gradually increasing warmth, signs that the entry chamber is near, and giving the necessary impression that one is leaving one world and entering another entirely, shaped by gods, chthonic, apprehended only in ritual. An hour’s slow descent brings the entrant to the first chamber floor, bloodwarm like the earth’s heart and glowing with reflected lights from the eternal torches in the interior. Fragrant smoke from unseen censors flows from small cuts in the walls, as the chamber widens and deepens suddenly, a wide plain up against the shore of the great pool obscured by fog. The entrant here places the representation of his chosen familiar on a small reed boat, letting it drift into the fog and darkness beyond. This is the chosen greeting of a novice. If the entrant was born with the caul, no such gift is necessary, the gods are expecting her. These entrants descend in daylight, when all but the highest gods are sleeping. Along the hundred foot shore run the torches, casting ghastly shadows on the further paths, which the entrant was not prepared for, the choice of direction telling the high priests everything about the entrant’s watcher, true familiar, and god spirit. The red glow comes from the flower chamber, the yellow pall from the wolf’s lair.
The entrant follows the color of power, sacrificial blood, and the thoughts of gods to the red chamber, and will accept a priesthood fated to a lower calling in the precinct. The entrant who follows the sickly color, the color of weaker stars, will be surprised that her surmise correctly guessed a trick: her lineage is clear, the predator is her familiar, the higher mysteries await, and she may gaze, eventually, after many trials and initiations, upon the deepest chambers of the temple, until she finds, at last, the final chamber, first built and long hidden, wherein she will perceive, at last, the tin-faced walls of the shape of the wolf.
Candle the wolf cut-outs, see what’s inside.