Terminal Mass

Two new elements, can you believe it. These things don't exist for a nano-second, I've looked at the trace, hardly there and very heavy. The term 'bar sinister' is a heraldic impossibility. Take a tip from one who's tried. The right hand doesn't know what the left hand doeth. Sidney Lanier comes to mind, below decks, dying, playing his flute. The skipper's daughter had been his student, recognizes his phrasing, has him hauled up out of the hold, and instead of Andersonville, he ends his days in NYC, playing for a appreciative crowd. I still read his poems, laugh at the silly rhymes, but I still read them. There's a force there, that's in touch with something. Whip-O-Wills and hoot-owls in the night. A veritable concert, a virtual song. Whatever keeps you awake. For me, right now, one of those birds moves within thirty feet, and I can hear that clucking sound, on the intake of breath, and the notes are loud. Fucking awful, really, but just when it reaches that point that I must either kill myself or shoot off the shotgun out of sheer desperation, the bird flies away. The silence is overwhelming. Yes, she said, what you imagine might very well be true, certain Korean condiments could make a difference. Consider that in context, make a few notes, look up a few words. A joggle joint is dovetailing in stone. Another slow day at the museum, D and I do some repair work, fix one of the (important) six-foot tables. We organize the load-out, on next Tuesday early, two large trucks arriving at the same time, taking shows in opposite directions. We're good to go. I spend some time, with a high-speed connection, reading John Clare and about him. Friend Skip is guest editing an online mag and wants me to do a piece, recommended Clare. Interesting dude. British rustic poet, a kind of Thoreau, who suffered severe depression and spent his last dozen years in a looney bin. Skip gave me some slack, and I'm leaning toward Christopher Smart. Who also went nuts. There's an underlying theme here. I could do a Clare piece, in the naturalist vein, but if I did a Smart piece it would be more a Janitor College type block; I mean paragraph, I think of paragraphs as blocks. I compose blocks of text is how I perceive what I do. I use them to build stacks of paper, it keeps me busy. Most of this rain is missing me to the north, a bare spatter is all I get, and I was so prepared. Made a sausage and bean dinner, a good chorizo and chick peas. So good I almost faint, a combination rarely bettered. At the very end, I added in some shredded poke shoots. Excellent. Another modified idea. Supposed to be kale but I didn't have any. Provincetown bar food. The summer I saw four Eugene O'Neil plays, at his theater on the water, I'd slip out and have some soup and a draft. Those plays are endless, you can actually get drunk and sober up during "The Ice-Man Cometh", probably your best plan. I'm not sentimental, nature teaches hard lessons, what lives, what dies. You can compost anything organic, at least make dirt, on your way to Santa Fe. Maria S. yes, four people responded. I thought it was a poor showing, I thought someone read me closely. Linda does, but I knew that, and Neil. I actually think of myself as transparent.