I'm three years away from being out from under a mortgage barring complete reaming by the coming mortgage clusterfuck, but I'm about to go half-a-mortgage under soon when Planet picks an elitist Liberal Arts school, one of which might be Bowdoin or Connecticut College; we're flying this afternoon to Boston then driving to Brunswick ME for an official interview at Bowdoin Friday morning, then driving to New London CT to interview Saturday morning. (We land at Logan Thursday at 7:00PM, probably get out with the rental by nine, then drive into New Hampshire, get a room, sleep a few hours, get up at six and drive north to Brunswick, interview, turnaround and immediately drive south to New London. Montag, I'll wave hi to and from from the 295 overpass over 309.)
I know this sounds callous and complicitous, but my generation of mes probably won't lack for catfood, it's my daughter's generation that will begin hording catfood, it's my grand-childrens' world that need survive the catfood famines, both natural and man-made, but my only child wants to go to Bowdoin or Hamilton or Carleton or any of seven others, we can afford to send her to a school which will credential her to be in a class of Americans who'll risk exposure to tainted catfood almost next to last, and so would you.
I'm still distraught with the certainty I'm leaving my daughter a world shittier than my parents left me, but I fear I've underestimated with my puny hive-mind how many zeroes are multiplying zeroes in cascades of kazillions of totalitarian square-root signs, that my house may be repossessed by square root even after I've paid it off, that my timeline of catfoodery is too optimistic by at least one generation.
REMEMBER! - I've moved HERE. Please adjust your bookmarks and blogrolls and readers. I understand it's a pain in the ass, so many thanks!
Links - I know I promised links here for a week, but I discovered/remembered that some blogs list other blogs linking to a particular post and was mortified (as much as I can be mortified) to see both the typepad and blooger links, and while I thought I was an unabashable blogwhore, apparently there is a threshold beyond which is abashedness.
Alright, I think I've successfully blogrolled everyone at THE NEW PLACE who is still alive and who was on the blogroll at the this old place. If you don't see yourself at THE NEW PLACE in the right-hand column under BECAUSE you're in the left-hand column BECAUSE because it makes things easier from a me organizational point-of-view. If you are on the old blogrolls but don't see yourself on the blogrolls at THE NEW PLACE, please send me an email (blckdgrd ampersand gmail dot com), or if you are being Kind to me and I'm not reciprocating, and/or you want to Hey Sailor me, send an email too.
I realize that moving to THE NEW PLACE at a time when I'm getting more hits than ever smacks of self-destructive stupidity, but getting angry at motherfucking typepad was motherfucking unfun and I can find unfun by the motherfucking bucketful without motherfucking typepad's help, and the look there is better and Ba'al bless the updating blogrolls, they're both boon to you bloggers I pimp and a lazy man's dream.
I recognize the inconvenience. Sincere and flattered thanks to friends who've already rewired their bumps to THE NEW PLACE, advance thanks to everyone who will move their bumps and eyes to THE NEW PLACE too.
Links and music will be posted here for at least another week (though not updates and link updates in posts), though no promises.
UPDATE! Though to be a pest, if you want to hear the new Fever Ray cover of Gabriel's Mercy Street that I literally just heard for the first time, go here.
But not the poem, because motherfucking typepad fucks up the line-breaks every goddamn time, and I don't need the arrgh to deal with it. The poem from which the post's title is taken is at THE NEW PLACE.
Another one of dozens of my five favorite songs ever:
So I log onto motherfucking typepad this morning and there's a new editing platform and it sucks unto blow and blows unto suck. Compare the space between the above Fleabus photo and the text of this post with the space between the Fleabus photo and text in this post. An eighth of an inch of motherfucking aargh, and there's no fucking fixing it.
Motherfucking typepad has always sucked, dropping colors, dropping fonts, dropping links, dropping margins, dropping formatting, eating text, eating posts, and now it sucks more with a motherfucking upgraded editor? I'm paying $150 a year for this motherfucking suck? Fuckity, I can get all the motherfucking suck I want in this world for free (though if we want the 5% discount on next year's United season tickets we need to get it in by November, though I'm buying that motherfucking suck one way or the other).
Well, this is the last year I'm paying motherfucking typepad for the suck unless it's not. If I migrate I'll migrate slowly (I have eleven months of paid-for suck remaining), and once I figure out and format Blooger (which I'm told is still suckful though far less suckful than when it pissed me off in 2006, plus it has those cool self-updating blogrolls) or Wordpress, I'll cross-post both here and there for the first couple of months as I hassle you to update your bookmarks and blogrolls, though, knowing me, I'll probably spare you and me and just stay here and pay for and eat and spit my aargh for my daily aargh.
Notice how the above is properly spaced from the text but is slightly off-center. Motherfucking typepad allows me one or the other. Oh, and they have no live-chat or phone help.
Men are legally allowed to have sex with animals,
as long as the animals are female.
Having sexual relations with a male animal
is taboo and punishable by death.
As long as the fish are female
saleswomen in tropical fish stores are allowed to go topless.
Adultery is punishable by death
as long as the betrayed woman uses her bare hands to kill her husband.
Saleswomen in tropical fish stores are allowed to go topless,
but the gynecologist must only look at a woman’s genitals in a mirror.
The woman uses her bare hands to kill her husband,
then his dead genitals must be covered with a brick.
The gynecologist must only look at a woman’s genitals in a mirror
and never look at the genitals of a corpse—
these genitals must be covered with a brick.
The penalty for masturbation is decapitation.
A look at the genitals of a corpse
will confirm that not much happens in that region after death.
The penalty for masturbation is decapitation.
It is illegal to have sex with a mother and her daughter at the same time.
To confirm what happens during sex,
a woman’s mother must be in the room to witness her daughter’s deflowering,
though it is illegal to have sex with a mother and her daughter at the same time.
It is legal to sell condoms from vending machines as long as
a woman’s mother is in the room to witness her daughter’s deflowering.
Men are legally allowed to have sex with animals—
why it’s even legal to sell condoms from vending machines, as long as
everyone’s having sexual relations with a male animal.
The number 41 greatest music act according to KEXP's silly-ass fund-drive gimmick list happens to have made another one of dozens of my five favorite songs ever:
Dan
is going to put Charlie to sleep if I cant find him a home. DOES ANYONE
HAVE ANY IDEAS?? Please write or call whomever you can that might be
able to help -- Charlie's days are numbered. his new family -- with two
small kids -- dont like charlie and charlie doesnt like them. the kids
are too young and loud noises and loud commotion bother him.
I
would take him but he doesnt like me. He wont come out of his kennel
when around me. AND He hates my neighbors and their kids so they cant
help me walk him when I am not home. so I dont know what to do.
Anyway
-- let me know ASAP if you can think of an idea yourself. this dog has
major mental problems from being negected and abused by his last house.
But, with training, he might be able to be socialized. I found a trainer
that would take him in but it would cost approx $1200 a month. he is
used to living around other dogs, cats and parrots.
Ideas? Anyone has Ideas?
Yes, no-kill rescues, and I sent her links. And fuck motherfucking puppy mills and the motherfucking crackers that support them because they hate the Humane Society.
An acquaintance told me he and his wife have found a new apartment, one where they can have pets, they're getting a purebred terrier and a bluepoint cat from reputable breeders, and no, I didn't ask had they considered rescues because what would asking have served beyond satisfying the scold in me.
I’m not sure Gibbs has a coherent idea of what he means by the “left,”
but if opposition to permanent war, extrajudicial assassination of
American citizens, boundless state secrecy, and unlimited corporate
bailouts constitutes “leftism,” then so be it. True to their Clintonian
principles, President Obama and his advisors have spurned the Democratic
Party’s liberal base and have sought to govern by appropriating the
policies of the Republican right. Just as Bill Clinton enacted NAFTA and
destroyed welfare, Barack Obama has pushed through a health-care
program that was inspired by the Heritage Foundation and largely written
by the insurance lobby—and he shows every sign of being willing to
vandalize Social Security in the name of deficit reduction even though
the program has nothing to do with the federal budget deficit. Obama has
embraced the Bushite war on terror and has refused to roll back the
unconstitutional executive usurpations that so outraged his supporters.
And yet Democrats expect liberals to toe the line and shut the hell up
lest the Republicans take advantage of their dissent. In fact, for the
most part, the “professional left” of policy intellectuals, public
interest advocates, and opinion journalists have done just that.
All good and fine, but then he adds:
What’s fascinating about the Democrats is how consistently they have
squandered enormous political advantages. The party’s leaders have
apparently internalized Republican propaganda to the point that they
feel they do not deserve to rule; consequently, when Democrats come to
power, they always negotiate with themselves prior to meeting their
opponents, make the tough-minded decision to betray their most loyal
supporters, and profess shock and anger when the GOP—which never makes
the mistake of publicly spurning its base—refuses to accept the
purported bipartisan compromise. What results, of course, is that the
Democratic Party, over and over again, enacts some version of the
Republican agenda.
And that sums up the rube I try but fail to finally shed, the rube who gets screamed at because I don't quite want to shed it enough, the rube who gets lectured to by my dearest mentors who remember when progress (defined in their case by the civil and labor rights won post-Depression) was not only demanded and expected but achievable, the happy, fat, and domesticated rube who likes to play at being feral.
Napoleon is a wonder cat, Frankie the funniest cat I've know.
Give to a rescue. Get your next pet from a rescue. Please.
Ngugi wa Thiong'o now odds-on-favorite to win Nobel. I read and liked a lot but promptly stopped thinking about Wizard of the Crow. (Cormac McCarthy is now second favorite.)
It's Fall Drive week at KEXP. If you listen, throw them some tribute. This drive's gimmick? They asked listeners to vote for their top music acts, solo or band, ever. Who will be number one, Beatles, Radiohead or Arcade Fire?
I sit on the tracks,
a hundred feet from
earth, fifty from the
water. Gerald is
inching toward me
as grim, slow, and
determined as a
season, because he
has no trade and wants
none. It's been nine months
since I last listened
to his fate, but I
know what he will say:
he's the fire hydrant
of the underdog.
When he reaches my
point above the creek,
he sits down without
salutation, and
spits profoundly out
past the edge, and peeks
for meaning in the
ripple it brings. He
scowls. He speaks: when you
walk down any street
you see nothing but
coagulations
of shit and vomit,
and I'm sick of it.
I suggest suicide;
he prefers murder,
and spits again for
the sake of all the
great devout losers.
A conductor's horn
concerto breaks the
air, and we, two doomed
pennies on the track,
shove off and somersault
like anesthetized
fleas, ruffling the
ideal locomotive
poised on the water
with our light, dry bodies.
Gerald shouts
terrifically as
he sails downstream like
a young man with a
destination. I
swim toward shore as
fast as my boots will
allow; as always,
neglecting to drown.
This was in my head yesterday afternoon as the 102 degree fever was crashing. counterstream has been playing a lot of contemporary choral music lately, so you are forewarned, though I've listened to Monk for years and this is one of dozens of my five favorite songs ever:
Dear Cowardly Emailer clever enough to send an email without return address (not that I'd have emailed you; I remark only on your cowardice),
Why yes, this blog does suck, thank you. I've always said so. I don't know what I want this crappy blog to be, funny or serious, happy or angry, light or heavy, conciliatory or accusatory, open-minded or parochial, honest or disingenuous, coherent or incoherent, rude or ruder, loud or louder, self-aggrandizing or self-scourging, informative or white noise, etc.... but I do know that I don't want this blog to be either funny or serious, happy or angry, light or heavy, coherent or incoherent, conciliatory or accusatory, open-minded or parochial, honest or
disingenuous, rude or ruder, loud or louder, self-aggrandizing or
self-scourging, informative or white noise, etc...
These are the funniest, most serious, happiest, angriest, lightest, heaviest, most in need of conciliation, most necessarily accusatory, most open-minded, most parochial, most honest, most disingenuous, most coherent, most incoherent, the rudest, loudest, most self-aggrandizing, most self-scourging, most informative, the most static-filled white-noised days of my life. I'm canary, I'm weathervane, I'm Cassandra, I'm Fool. That you took the trouble to tell me this crappy blog sucks is a sign this crappy blog is suc(K)ceeding at some level. My thanks are not either/or either.
Ambulance-fee back on ballot. If anyone blegs a passionate post detailing the reasons to vote against the fee, I'll link. Alternatively, if that person wants to find his passionate comment detailing the reasons to vote against the fee downblog, I'll link to that.
What are books good for? "My best answer is that books produce knowledge by encasing it. Books
take ideas and set them down, transforming them through the limitations
of space into thinking usable by others. In 1959, C.P. Snow threw down
the challenge of "two cultures," the scientific and the humanistic,
pursuing their separate, unconnected lives within developed societies.
In the new-media ecology of the 21st century, we may not have closed
that gap, but the two cultures of the contemporary world are the culture
of data and the culture of narrative. Narrative is rarely collective.
It isn't infinitely expandable. Narrative has a shape and a temporality,
and it ends, just as our lives do. Books tell stories. Scholarly books
tell scholarly stories."
Against the Day. I've found myself thinking about it more than I thought I would when I finished my second read a couple of months ago, mostly about Cyprian Latewood, his entire story but especially his epiphany in Bulgaria. The more I think about it, for all the Vibes, Traverses, Rideouts, Chums, and Highcourts, Cyprian may be the key character.
UPDATE!Heh! Damn, now Jim's pissed at the realities of the world. Those of you guitar players who read this shitty blog, can The Situation's CD release be far away?
To live each day as if it might be the last Is an injunction that Marcus Aurelius Inscribes in his journal to remind himself That he, too, however privileged, is mortal, That whatever bounty is destined to reach him Has reached him already, many times. But if you take his maxim too literally And devote your mornings to tinkering with your will, Your afternoons and evenings to saying farewell To friends and family, you’ll come to regret it. Soon your lawyer won’t fit you into his schedule. Soon your dear ones will hide in a closet When they hear your heavy step on the porch. And then your house will slide into disrepair. If this is my last day, you’ll say to yourself, Why waste time sealing drafts in the window frames Or cleaning gutters or patching the driveway? If you don’t want your heirs to curse the day You first opened Marcus’s journals, Take him simply to mean you should find an hour Each day to pay a debt or forgive one, Or write a letter of thanks or apology. No shame in leaving behind some evidence You were hoping to live beyond the moment. No shame in a ticket to a concert seven months off, Or, better yet, two tickets, as if you were hoping To meet by then someone who’d love to join you, Two seats near the front so you catch each note.
I'm tribal, I'm shallow, I'm small. I think human capacity to micro-network tribal grievances saved humans from destruction merely by exacerbating human incapability to organize and execute self-extinction. Some guy would shoot an arrow at a fat fleeing me because I'd shoot an arrow at some fuck in a tree-stand shooting arrows at sickly-ass Maryland deer. I've never found peace because I've never looked for it.
I'm black licorice to some; many are black licorice to me. This is not complaint: I like being black licorice almost as much as I like being liked, as if I had a say either way. This is not a complaint: those who hate each other instinctively, competitively, vigorously, teach us more about ourselves than all
the love of all our friends.
Is Greenwald beyond criticism? I think his asinine defense of Kos' book undermined some of his credibility, and he earned all the criticism he took for that, but I think he's a far more honest broker than Digbys and Shakes, etc.... which doesn't mean he's beyond criticism, just explains why he might be criticized less.
UPDATE!Influential left-wingers? I confess, I love reading Zizek, think he's an excellent fraud, possibly the best fraud now working. And I mean that as a high compliment.
It's been almost a decade since we started Six Apart. With you, the
bloggers and creators, we changed the way people expressed themselves
online, empowering anyone to publish and build large and loyal
audiences. We thank you from the bottom of our hearts for your continued
support and trust as you've shared your worlds and your passions on
TypePad.
Today we announced our intention to join forces with VideoEgg
to form a new, modern media company called SAY Media. This new company
will continue Six Apart's mission to make creators like you more
successful. It will continue to help you create powerful and engaging
content, and grow and monetize your audience. And it will continue to
leave you in control.
Nothing in TypePad changes today, and SAY Media will continue to
provide support to TypePad subscribers, and evolve the TypePad platform.
You can choose to take advantage of our strong relationships with
marketers to monetize your blogs, or you can keep your blog ad-free.
Typepad does little things that piss me the fuck off - it loses fonts when I change them for quotes and poems, it loses fonts when I cut and paste, it doesn't have those cool self-updating blogrolls like some of my blegfriends who blooger - and I'm due to pay-up the $125 for another year in a month, but until VideoEgg fucks things up - and VideoEgg will fuck things up and charge more for it - I haven't the energy or the will to move.
You could put an X here. You could draw a picture of a horse. You could write a tract, manifesto - but keep it short. You could wail, whine, rail or polysyllable celebrate. You could fill this space with one syllable: praise. The only requirement, the anti-poet said, is to improve upon the blank page, which, if you are not made blind by ego, is a hard task. You could write some numbers here. You could write your name, and dates. You could leave a thumbprint, or paint your lips and kiss the page. A hard task - the blank so creamy, a cold and perfect snowfield upon which a human, its only human, wants to leave his inky black and awkward marks.
Another one of dozens of my five favorite songs ever:
Nick Cave is 53 today, which is serendipitously related to this post because all it takes is reading someone bleggalgaze to create a bleggalgazing cascade in my head that increases in intensity until I need release it and that Nick Cave song is this bleg's official Bleggalgazing Anthem.
I'm always wondering if I've stopped wondering about thinking about blegstopping because I clearly can't blegstop, but I can't stop wondering whether I could stop wondering if I'm thinking about wondering about thinking about blegstopping. Oddest days of my life; if everything's a metaphor for everything else... There's always this: Thanks for the Kind.
Speaking of bleggalgazing, there is an odd vibe in Blegsylvania. September, January, June are always weird months as people's work/school/life cycles change and with it their viewing/posting routines, but I sense a weary withdrawal setting in, a withdrawing weariness.
Speaking of bleggalg(r)azing, some new links over in New New Toys, and suggestions for new places are solicited.
The artisans of this room, who designed the lamp base (a huge red slug with a hole where its heart should be) or chose this print of a butterscotch sunset, must have been abused in art class as children, forced to fingerpaint with a nose, or a tongue. To put this color green--exhausted grave grass--to cinder blocks takes an understanding of loneliness and/or institutions that terrifies. It would seem not smart to create a color scheme in a motel room that's likely to cause impotence in men and open sores in women, but that's what this puce bedspread with its warty, ratty tufts could do. It complements the towels, torn and holding awful secrets like the sail on a life raft loaded with blackened, half-eaten corpses . . . I think I owned this desk once, I think this chair is where I sat with the Help Wanted ads spread and wobbling before me as I looked for jobs to lead me upward: to rooms like this, in America, where I dreamed I lived . . . Do I deprive tonight the beautician and her lover, a shower-head salesman, of this room? He is so seldom in town. I felt by their glance in the hallway that my room, no. 17, means something (don't ask me to explain this) special to them. Maybe they fell fiercely into each other here for the first time, maybe there was a passion preternatural. I'm glad this room, so ugly, has known some love at $19.00 double occupancy-- though not tonight, for a dollar fifty less.
Obamasshole: Now, the second reason I'm telling you this is because
Democrats, just
congenitally, tend to get -- to see the glass as half empty.
(Laughter.) If we get an historic health care bill passed -- oh, well,
the public option wasn't there. If you get the financial reform bill
passed -- then, well, I don't know about this particularly derivatives
rule, I'm not sure that I'm satisfied with that. And gosh, we haven't
yet brought about world peace and -- (laughter.) I thought that was
going to happen quicker. (Laughter.) You know who you are.
(Laughter.) And gosh, no mention of not closing Guantanamo,
reducing civil liberties, expanding executive power, reducing
transparency, expanding military operations, but since you
mentioned it, fuck you on the public option in health care too, you
(pints for everyone!) motherfucker.
Look at the smirk on the above motherfucker. He applauds Obama's speech attacking the Left.
On what
I just wrote about. This is true: I hadn't planned on writing today,
but got up, brewed coffee, turned on PC, clicked on YFWP, saw the
Stromberg piece, and fuck.
UPDATE!Greenwald weighed in, brought documentation.
O! Fuck Joe Biden too. Remember, Obamalame brought him in for his foreign policy expertise. How's that working out?
Thomas Edison High School?
I missed that one. Lived in this county for 46 years, have a kid who's a
senior in an MCPS high school, have a dear friend who's a teacher in
MCPS, am married to a woman who's a teacher in MCPS, I've never heard of
Thomas Edison High School.
This is the beauty of being alone towards the end of summer: a dozen stray animals asleep on the porch in the shade of my feet, and the smell of leaves burning in another neighborhood. It is late in the morning, and my forehead is alive with shadows, some bats rock back and forth to the rhythm of my humming, the mimosa flutters with bees. This is the house of unwritten poems, this is where I am unborn.
According to fuckstick Steven Pearlstein, asshat and business columnist in Your Fucking Washington Post, if you voted in MOCO for Hans Riemer you're as lunatic as a Delaware tea-partier voting for Christine O'Donnell:
I disagree with my Post colleague E.J. Dionne that this is strictly a
Republican phenomenon, in which the "tea party'' and other
anti-government zealots are in the final stages of driving out
experienced, thoughtful moderates from the Republican party. The dynamic
on the Democratic side is as much about interest group politics as it
is about political ideology, but you don't have to look hard to find it
in the defeat locally of Washington Mayor Adrian Fenty and Montgomery
Council member Duchy Trachtenberg, or nationally in President Obama's
declining poll numbers.
Tuesday in Delaware was a bad day not only for Republicans but also for
conservatives. Tea Partyer Christine O'Donnell scored a stunning victory
over establishment Republican Mike Castle. Stunning but pyrrhic. The
very people who have most alerted the country to the perils of President
Obama's social democratic agenda may have just made it impossible for
Republicans to retake the Senate and definitively stop that agenda.
Peasants! Wait! The World's Shittiest Human walks it back:
Nor is opposition to O'Donnell's candidacy a sign of hostility or
disrespect to the Tea Party. Many of those who wanted to see Castle
nominated in Delaware have from the beginning defended the Tea Party movement
from the mainstream media's scurrilous portrayal of it as a racist
rabble of resentful lumpenproletarians. Indeed, it is among the most
vigorous and salutary grass-roots movements of our time, dedicated to a
genuine constitutionalism from which the country has strayed far.
Genuine constitutionalism. He funny, Mr ShittyMan.
Republican Senate prospects illustrate the challenge. Without the broad
backlash to the Obama agenda channeled by the Tea Party, Republican
control of the Senate would be inconceivable. Without the primary
victories of Tea Party candidates in Nevada and Delaware, that control
would be more likely. And some Tea Party activists seem content with
this state of affairs, arguing that an unspoiled minority is preferable
to a majority held hostage to its most liberal members. "We need people
[in Washington] to understand we've got to get back to limited
government," says Sen. Jim DeMint (R-S.C.), who endorsed O'Donnell, "and we can't afford to have other Republicans who don't get that message."
Peasants! There are ramparts and there are ramparts:
But this is not the way parties gain influence. Imposing the same
ideological standards for all Republican candidates -- in Delaware as in
South Carolina -- would ensure losses in whole regions of the country.
And DeMint's Republican colleagues in the Senate cannot be pleased that
his passion for purity may have helped deprive them of committee
chairmanships that influence the direction of public policy in thousands
of practical ways each year.
Villagers to Action! If Republicans don't recapture the Senate, Tea-Partiers will be blamed, if Republicans do recapture the Senate, Tea-Partiers will be trained.
Not that the Left in this country will ever tea-party, but there are entertaining lessons to be relearned watching the upcoming house-breaking of the insurgent Right.
UPDATE! New Heaney and Muldoon reviewed, which reminded me that we're about two weeks from the start of Nobel season. Is Roth the only American possibility?
I hadn't thought of Bill Nelson in a couple of years.
THE ABDUCTION
Stanley Kunitz
Some things I do not profess
to understand, perhaps
not wanting to, including
whatever it was they did
with you or you with them
that timeless summer day
when you stumbled out of the wood,
distracted, with your white blouse torn
and a bloodstain on your skirt.
"Do you believe?" you asked.
Between us, through the years,
we pieced enough together
to make the story real:
how you encountered on the path
a pack of sleek, grey hounds,
trailed by a dumbshow retinue
in leather shrouds; and how
you were led, through leafy ways,
into the presence of a royal stag,
flaming in his chestnut coat,
who kneeled on a swale of moss
before you; and how you were borne
aloft in triumph through the green,
stretched on his rack of budding horn,
till suddenly you found yourself alone
in a trampled clearing.
That was a long time ago,
almost another age, but even now,
when I hold you in my arms,
I wonder where you are.
Sometimes I wake to hear
the engines of the night thrumming
outside the east bay window
on the lawn spreading to the rose garden.
You lie beside me in elegant repose,
a hint of transport hovering on your lips,
indifferent to the harsh green flares
that swivel through the room,
searchlights controlled by unseen hands.
Out there is a childhood country,
bleached faces peering in
with coals for eyes.
Our lives are spinning out
from world to world;
the shapes of things
are shifting in the wind.
What do we know
beyond the rapture and the dread?
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