Thomas played The Gordons this past Sunday morning on WFMU, I didn't get chance to listen to his show until Thursday morning. I've posted a couple of songs before, but nowhere near as many as I have Bailter Space, the band after The Gordons.
There was a drive-by Thursday night pints. Conversation was divided between our mutual employer, which isn't going to be dialogued here, and our projects, including my projects, which includes this shitty blog and what I can and can't, do and don't write about here, which might be discussed here but not, Son of Duras, today. You only think I think a lot about what I'm doing here. I'm negotiating with K to let me post some of her photography though there was not enough time last night to prime her with enough ridiculously priced amber Nyquil to make it happen this week.
We're off to a family wedding tomorrow so don't know what will appear here over the weekend. I no doubt will post something, I'm incapable of not. Sunday is the 33rd anniversary of an assassination, I either will or won't post songs and the standard I remember exactly where I was line I always do. The drive is down 95 to 295 to 64 to Norfolk, boring as any drive can be, so I don't know if Earthgirl will be taking photos or if she does whether there will be a slideshow and soundtrack. I do know there will not be a review of the wedding or the reception afterward. We're both dreading it, though I shouldn't write about that dread here either, should I.
- Mandela's life and death respectfully noted, you're welcome, you'll get neither obituary or eulogy from me, but jeesusfuck, the obituary and eulogy industries creep me out. But not as much as corpse tug-of-war between Corporate divisions.You're aware of the who, what, how, why.
- Corporations in our head.
- When was futurism.
- Us and them. Sublede: If novels are to help us understand 21st century threats like terrorism, late 20th century masculinist realism will need to give way to hysterical realism.
- Color wheel of languages.
- The art of landscape writing.
- Twenty weeks: losing the son she never had.
- Hard freeze.
- A trip to England's 9th tier.
- Thank gravy it's Zappadan.
- Rusted Shut has a tech question for you.
TOUCH GALLERY: JOAN OF ARC
Mary Szybist
The sculptures in this gallery have been
carefully treated with a protective wax
so that visitors may touch them.
—exhibitions, the art institute
of chicago
Stone soldier, it's okay now.
I've removed my rings, my watch, my bracelets.
I'm allowed, brave girl,
to touch you here, where the mail covers your throat,
your full neck, down your shoulders
to here, where raised unlatchable buckles
mock-fasten your plated armor.
Nothing peels from you.
Your skin gleams like the silver earrings
you do not wear.
Above you, museum windows gleam October.
Above you, high gold leaves flinch in the garden,
but the flat immovable leaves entwined in your hair to crown you
go through what my fingers can't.
I want you to have a mind I can turn in my hands.
You have a smooth and upturned chin,
cold cheeks, unbruisable eyes,
and hair as grooved as fig skin.
It's October, but it's not October
behind your ears, which don't hint
of dark birds moving overhead,
or of the blush and canary leaves
emptying themselves
in slow spasms
into shallow hedgerows.
Still bride of your own armor,
bride of your own blind eyes,
this isn't an appeal.
If I could I would let your hair down
and make your ears disappear.
Your head at my shoulder, my fingers on your lips—
as if the cool of your stone curls were the cool
of an evening—
as if you were about to eat salt from my hand.
