I have to say as an Irish person how proud and honored I am that the United Kingdom has appointed a prime minister whose first name is an anagram of “Irish”; I know we and the English have had our troubles in the past Troubles with a capital T (the Plantation of Ulster…don’t get me started) but the English are subtle people not given to public displays of emotion and this gesture is quintessentially English in its subtlety it’s as if they are saying thank you for Father Ted it brings a tear to my eye it takes the oatmeal biscuit so “Hello Rishi” as they say in Ireland “buachaill inniu, fear amarach” or loosely translated from the Gaelic “I hope your politics change soon”.
a forest fire haze turns the morning sun orange, down in the Village square dazed coffee drinkers nurse their hangovers too many stayed too late at the Dublin Gate here and there perky couples with dogs take photos for their blogs, jpegs spiral upwards into the cloud which is not a cloud it’s a bank of a billion hard drives humming hard in flat roofed, air-conditioned buildings somewhere I will always think of as Texas
no snow on the mountains the glaciers have retreated as if they’re afraid of something leaving behind bare granite
over on the islands there is talk of low water tables and no water for the table
we fiddle while forests burn
Nero….. Nero has nothing on us.
This is a response to Lindi’s excellent challenge over at earthweal
Repartee Slim gets off the no.3 bus at the corner of Hastings and Main -the corner of Desperate and Lost- having travelled east on the 99 express, his nose stuck in the feral stink of some guy’s armpit, wishing, not for the first time, that he was six inches taller. A country lyric twangs in his head something about “the losing side of town”. He surveys the wreckage all around him: a guy with a raw scabrous face scratches frantically; a bundle of rags twitches in a doorway; people are scurrying back and forth like they’ve received a message from an alien dispatcher that the mother ship has landed, and they can’t find a toothbrush; further on in a laneway that smells of piss a man and a woman, both dressed in black with sweating raddled faces sway back and forth shouting: Fuck you! No! Fuck you! in a profane loop.
Repartee, Slim says, to no one in particular, what an unexpected bonus.
baselines, fault lines , paradigm shifts ignorance has been weaponized what will we do, what will we do when all the nouns are verbed?
I think I made a mistake how is there still doubt in that sentence? A man goes to a party to get infected with a virus in order to prove that the virus is a hoax, the man dies. It’s hard not to be harsh. Is this a new baseline, a new low? Is it an intelligence deficit? Is it lack of education? No, this is something different this is a sea change the beast has left Bethlehem the malware has been activated the human race has started to self-limit. Whatever god, assembly of gods or conglomerate of alien scientists malevolent or benevolent that designed this whole shebang that opened this can of worms has had enough the malware has been activated the fix is in it’s past midnight and the eagle has flown Aunt Mary is hanging out the washing the human race has started to self-limit.
A man goes to a party to get infected with a virus in order to prove that the virus is a hoax, the man dies.
tender is the night
long is the day’s journey into night
it’s easier to name a street car
than it is to name one’s desire
never attempt a ménage in a glass menagerie
there is nothing less erotic than a red wheelbarrow
a thing of beauty is a joy for a fortnight.
This poem was originally written as a response to Anmol Arora’s prompt – Poetics: Desire and Sexuality in Poetry, at dverse
photo taken in Sitges, Catalonia.
Also taking part in Open Link over at earthweal: earthweal
Todd’s time machine
has three settings:
time will be.
the time travel sickness
like a five alarm flu.
Returning through the time hail,
through the accelerating centuries
he hears his wife yell
from the ever present
from the basement stairs: I’m turning off that bloody time machine your dinner’s getting cold!
This was originally written as a response to a dVerse prompt “Time and What if”.
Early December, downtown Vancouver and it’s raining more than the usual cats and dogs, it feels like the city is trapped in a giant car wash.
All year long the weather has been acting like a child that hasn’t been taught limits.
Three months of summer drought.
We woke up one morning and white ash from forest fires covered the deck, and that evening down on the beach we were treated to a red ball sunset worthy of Beijing or Mumbai. The Indian guy in the coffee shop told me it made him feel homesick.
Something’s happening to the frogs.
The Oregon spotted frog is Canada’s most threatened amphibian, I saw that on TV program called “Canada’s Most Threatened Amphibians”. Also threatened is the northern leopard frog.
Sea stars have sea star wasting syndrome
We’re losing song birds, bats and bees
The world is an orchestra and the string section is leaving one by one.
Anthropocene Anthropocene Sixth Extinction, soon there will only be us.
****** At the corner of Georgia and Granville a pigeon waddles through a puddle created by a blocked storm drain
and I’m thinking: Who’d be a pigeon on a day like this? Who’d be a pigeon at a time like this?
I have always thought that Eve ate the apple because she was bored out of her tree which is not to imply that Eve lived in a tree it’s just an expression nor do I mean to imply that boredom is a feminine condition no far from it far from it but let’s face it Adam seems more than a little boring as does, let’s be honest, Paradise as a kid that was what I thought nothing much happening trees and fruit trees and fruit a serpent a bored Eve and hapless Adam and as we all know boredom is the mother of destruction just hand an empty glass bottle to three ten year old boys on a stony beach on a wet day.
Brendan over at earthweal asks us to write about beginnings.
Today I thought about Reince Priebus
not so much the man,
more the strange music of his name;
those slender vowels reversing
that echo of wince
the possible meanings
a salve, an ointment put some Reince on that cut, son;
the Latinate portliness of Priebus
a writ to slap someone with – Habeas Priebus
a complicated skateboard manoeuvre he executed a perfect reverse Priebus;
then I thought of Anthony, dear Anthony, Scaramucci, Scaramucci will you do the fandango,
you were not long with us
but still the smell of aftershave lingers
and it was you who let us know
about Steve Bannon’s auto fellatio,
alas, poor Steve
abandoned on the side of the road
like a rumpled sofa
a rumpled sofa smelling of yesterday’s sweat
and stale doctrine;
and what about Spicer and Huckabee
Plucky and Angry
your souls will be in the repair shop
for some time to come.
They appear in waves,
the arrested –
Flynn, Cohen and Stone,
the ones who once were serious people –
McMaster, Kelly, Bolton.
In years to come when men and women gather
to talk of greatness
your names will be long forgotten.
The list of the fallen goes on and on
and still Humpty continues his slow and tortuous fall.
Slim plugs in his guitar
sets the dial on his amp
to “heavy metal”
hits an E minor seven
walks out of the room
makes a cup of coffee
drinks a cup of coffee
checks the football results
texts his brother in England: what’s up, mate?
his brother doesn’t answer
he starts writing a novel: The sun – a red ball of anger on the horizon – shouts through the brown chemical haze: “that’s it, I’m outta here”. Then, and only then, they hear a baby cry.
That’s all he’s got
He returns to the room
that E minor seven
is still going
but faint now
like a rustle of paper
like the distant chatter
of dead drummers
in heavy metal heaven
he picks up his guitar
hits an A minor seven
walks out of the room
starts his taxes……
Having a coffee And reading Tom Wolfe On Chomsky in Harper’s Riding the express train of his prose As he hurtles through Chomsky’s early life Circling back all the time to linguists in the jungle Linguists in the jungle some where Until finally he pulls his linguist out of the jungle To attack Chomsky’s theories of Universal grammar and Recursion With news of the Piraha tribe in Brazil Who have no time for Jesus or Crooked Head tales And no concept of the future or the past There is only today and the other day And together they conspire To chew up Chomsky and spit him out.
The theme for this week over at earthweal is “Wild Language”
This year for Grammarama we attempted to organize a hoedown for the pronouns they, she, he but we couldn’t get the verbs to agree. Things got very tense they kept dredging up the past getting all conditional on us every time we seemed close to a consensus they would run off into corners and conjugate. Then it got melogrammatic the pronouns them, her, him announced they were tired of being used as objects and refused to participate. In the end we threw up our hands and gave up. Give me a bunch of nouns any day.