- Be impossible, demand the realistic.
- Taking back from the 1%?
- The high price of ignorance.
- American autumn.
- Gate, kept.
- Call me when Obama says this.
- Thanks! to T in Laurel and K (yes, of Thursday Night Pints) of Arlington, stuff was delivered Saturday afternoon. I will be making another delivery this coming weekend, donations solicited (including books, I'm told, cause it can be motherfucking boring at Occupy)...
- The war on the homefront.
- On the blinkeredness of soi-disant progressives.
- Uh-oh.
- Occupy Fredneck?
- Yes, just links today, shoot me for my blegwhorishness. I could claim half-truthfully I've too much to say and not enough time to process, though full truth is I spent a big slice of yesterday at Strathmore listening to Beethoven's Pastoral and then having a quiet dinner with Earthgirl, so shoot me for my complicity too! More tomorrow (besides links), or not.
- Clumsiness and truth are so often intertwined.....
- The common lot.
- Darkblack's Sunday Overnight.
- Goat-legged country god.
- Motor.
- Douglas Leader.
- Remembering Bitch Magnet.
FLOATING TREES
C.D. Wright
a bed is left open to a mirror
a mirror gazes long and hard at a bed
light fingers the house with its own acoustics
one of them writes this down
one has paper
bed of swollen creeks and theories and coils
bed of eyes and leaky pens
much of the night the air touches arms
arms extend themselves to air
their torsos turning toward a roll
of sound: thunder
night of coon scat and vandalized headstones
night of deep kisses and catamenia
his face by this light: saurian
hers: ash like the tissue of a hornets’ nest
one scans the aisle of firs
the faint blue line of them
one looks out: sans serif
“Didn’t I hear you tell them you were born
on a train”
what begins with a sough and ends with a groan
groan in which the tongue’s true color is revealed
the comb’s sough and the denim’s undeniable rub
the chair’s stripped back and muddied rung
color of stone soup and garden gloves
color of meal and treacle and sphagnum
hangers clinging to their coat
a soft while bulb to its string
the footprints inside us
iterate the footprints outside
the scratched words return to their sleeves
the dresses of monday through friday
swallow the long hips of weekends
a face is studied like a key
for the mystery of what it once opened
“I didn’t mean to wake you
angel brains”
ink of eyes and veins and phonemes
the ink completes the feeling
a mirror silently facing a door
door with no lock no lock
the room he brings into you
the room befalls you
like the fir trees he trues her
she nears him like the firs
if one vanishes one stays
if one stays the other will or will not vanish
otherwise my beautiful green fly
otherwise not a leaf stirs
