Thursday, February 23, 2017


    We knew to expect it and it
    is here. I am not going to
    bore readers today with a
    Constitutional critique of
    this latest assertion from
    a government whose Attorney
    General is Mr Sessions, of
    has been smashed repeatedly
    by our judiciary and will be
    again, this time for civil
    rights for transgender per-
    sons. I am only going to re-
    member its monstrously un-
    natural appetite for victims,
    and live to see it starved.

Thomas Tallis 
If ye love me
San Francisco 

Wednesday, February 22, 2017

At last the deportations

I know, I know. They say, the deportations
won't do me a bit of good. They'll do noth-
ing to enhance my place in society; if any-
thing, they warn, I won't have an unsympath-
etic target for my rages, anymore. But what
they do achieve, is proving I am strong. If
I may be irrational, I might feel no better,
but my rage will know no limit.

Tuesday, February 21, 2017

The long-simmering struggle with Sweden

The cruel unfairness of it is what hurts,
of course. It goes without saying, our
Great Innocent can endure this latest in
humanity's inhospitable greeting of his
incomparable triumph; but that pathetic,
little Sweden, should connive with domes-
tic media to refuse his anguished sympathy
for the present trial by ordeal of immig-
ration now so straining such sweet blond-
ness, is almost too much for his generous
soul to bear, without a rousing chorus of
the nativists among us, to denounce stu-
pidity in the face of unbaptized hordes.

Long? O my, how long has this schism on
the sanctity of blondness clawed at the
genius of our Great Innocent, to erupt 
in fury at the foul, malcolored tide in
its social climate-changing diaspora,
idly welcomed in the very citadel of
such fairness of complexion, as to try
the patience of his neurotic tastes, 
and expose his whole ascendancy to the
impertinent indifference of humanity?

It gives the appearance of a world,
going on, as if his triumph were a
nullity. Upon whom would anyone ever
wish this, as everyone is watching?

Monday, February 20, 2017

Working people

    The car stops, not because
    the driver thought they'd gone
    far enough or because the woman
    said, "I'm sick," or the boy
    had to pee. It simply stopped
    because it had to, and when the
    three get out and he pops
    the hood they discover the fan
    belt had vanished and the engine
    shut down, wisely. It could
    be worse - a cylinder could seize
    for no foreseeable reason and send
    them into irreversible debt.
    Cars are, after all, only
    machines, and this one -
    a '48 Pontiac Six - is
    aged and whimsical. It could
    be much worse - the Mojave
    in mid-July with no shade
    in sight or northern Ontario
    in winter, the snow already burning
    the backs of Father's hands and
    freighting Mother's lashes. They've
    stalled descending into a gully
    in rural Pennsylvania, a quiet
    place of maples leafing out,
    a place with its own creek
    high in its banks and beyond
    the creek a filling station,
    its lights still on after dawn,
    the red and green pumps ready to
    give, and someone there, half-awake.

Against occasion-
al custom in these
entries, this poem
is recited in full,
to remember the in-
dependent proprietor
of the most diligent
poetry offerings of
any shop in Virginia. 

Philip Levine
The Last Shift
  Pennsylvania Pastoral
Edward Hirsch
op. post.
Alfred A. Knopf, 2016©

Xiaoguang Tse, photography
Freddy Keith

Sunday, February 19, 2017

By his thumbs

  I fail to understand
  the proliferation of
  complaints with this
  new government, that
  it appears to be all
  thumbs (ignoring the
  matter of their dim-
  ension). Does anyone
  truly want an effec-
  tual version of this
  theatre of barbarity?

Jim Ferguson Unit
Gelatin silver print

Friday, February 17, 2017

Suppose it were Friday cxxii: Gathering speed

Have you been to the Musée d'Orsay
to see Millet's inspiration of the
motorcar? There's still time, even
as fast as fashion changes, today.
Luxury never commemorated labor so
swimmingly, or speed, its posture.

For every kernel of grain the gaze
assembles, discovery's less dimin-
ished than enhanced by a certainty
of following a grand haphazard way
of being formed, shaped, en route.

Now our demagogue for ancient jobs
bestrides the stage of luxury more
foully than emission standards can
bear, negligent and false to life,
while the provenance of art is oth-
erwise. Millet aroused indignation
at the Salon in 1875, but his work
was later bequeathed to the Louvre
to warn and edify false sentiment.

The picture's of a gender's place,
and we watch a gathering of speed.

E-Type 2+2
1961 - 1975

Jean-François Millet
The Gleaners

Thursday, February 16, 2017

We go home now ix

A friend wrote in
that he'd majored
in Philosophy, an
approach to fact;
and sharply did I
feel a separation
in a structure as
a crack in a bell 

 Illumination of the Pantheon
 is always in the same place,
 because the edifice is still
 one place, while reflections
 will shift, as a clapper may
 strike a bell or vice-versa.

 There aren't consciousnesses
 in alternation by the hours,
 they are Pantheons, that al-
 ways possess the same pitch.

 We have the same government,
 every moment in every thing.