a realization in port (day 174)

(@archillect)

"Who Was Mikhl Likht?"

"Trying to get his head round what it was that weighed on his tongue before that vanishing ice-world, Macfarlane turns to the cultural theorist Sianne Ngai, who suggests that ‘when shocked or grieving, we find ourselves able to speak of the experience only in “thick speech”. When speaking thickly, Ngai says, we are challenged in our usual ability to “interpret or respond”. A drastic slowdown and recursion of language occurs, a rhetorical enactment of fatigue and confusion … We speak an eddying speech, cloyed to the point of congealing’." --Mat Osmond writing at Dark Mountain

"I’m also pretty taken with the idea that we don’t know what the Golden Gate Bridge is singing about, other than it being windy."

dry bones a long time dead
a ritzier loon patina
trail of transfigured henna
squid velocipede

foe river wary · forever war
orate ruin · return
beehive · Baja eve
blackletter · bilk Altair

dry bones a long time dead speak
in the depths of cerulean
icy draft · the number draze

dead bones a long time dry touch
the heart of the wanderer
white castle · hunger occult

long bones a dead time dry dock
for the ketch of the wizard
blackletter · affirm Altair

time bones a dead dry longbow
has laughed this vector inly
i watch like · two storms folding

"Once, this place was happy, and then something went awry."

"And the sea sank to the Sea of the Dead
By the wad of blood. It would have slain the Sea of the Dead
But it would not..."

--GPT-2

"the moon is cool
shaking dust off my shoes
with tearful eyes"

--@poem_exe

(@ColeHenri via @JoyceCarolOates)

wall of aloes (day 173)

(via 9-eyes dot com)

"We will not find what we are looking for in the fluorescence of sea-lice."

"...and poetry moved in his skull, swift as the jewelled mosquito-hawks over a dark slow current of ancient decay." --M John Harrison, "The Lamia and Lord Cromis" in: Basilisk, ed Ellen Kushner (1980)

"To translate the indistinct poems of Mallarmé is to double the circuit of mirrorings and rhythmic spacings of relations."

1.
footprints of the riddlesphinx
gulls carry the souls of lost seafarers

can't watch the concrete crack
rebirth of my failure to reform

sunlight on my closed eyelids
i just get so unbearably sad

this not yet perfected silence

2.
cracking meaning-bones
for meaning-marrow
the last thing
on my bunker to-do-list

3.
heron, heroin, wordhood plummet
will o' the whisper
preconspiracies
stuttering
supersaturates
sphenogram
sphenogram
supersaturates

reflect on your journey

4.
ice cube for the dead plant
ice cube for the living

thunder or garbagemen
you decide

the symbol over perception
like a mask over a face

sweet dreams intermingled with nightmares
shocking loudness of the rolling empty bins

"The idea was to represent in abstract form the cruel chaotic dysfunctional nature of the human condition with all its potential for self destruction."

"autumn rain
rumours
her song"

--@poem_exe

red fiesta (day 172)

"It is quite possible that at one point, a samurai used a fax machine."

"But it seemed now that the place was no longer still — that it seethed with a malignant secret life — that it reached out towards me with its scummy waters, with the bony fingers of its trees, with the spectral faces it had spewed forth from its lethal deadfall." --@KlarkashT

"To speak is to thread and the thread weaves the world."

things that would have made sense
the façade of the house still standing
not all of us the fireworks

manners & the color
of the light remain

the necessity
to set word after word

duckspeak from the other side

September Song.

"Me, I'm jest a dumbdora, makin' her livin' anklin' over a waxed floor with all th' apple-knockers, brush-apes, an' spongecakes in th' world." --@HarrySKeeler

"There is a continually reviving subvocalic nattering. In its lacunae, poems are glimpsed."

(pixel8or on tumblr)

treasures of the looters museum (day 171)

(@archillect)

Cosmic girls.

"just enough spring rain
blows with wild piercing voice
the mist between us
these slept-in sheets"

--@poem_exe

The view from Lissounes.

he wanders a wyvern way
that treads with fractal yaw
the turquoise field of a hundred steps
& nowhere-view

enough if there were bourne to reach
or finitude of term
not only mine the war
not only sky this storm

i know i will remain
through even voting-day shenanigans,
Groundhog Day return & battery drain
& Godzilla chine that stuns

Why the Water Towers are not Named.

"I have experienced, before now, that to see things for the first time by stealth, in the evening, in the fever of a hurried visit, is the way to receive a complete, definite and just impression of them." --Pierre Loti

"We like books you can hold in your hands, books made of paper."

(via via harlan smalling via liz moran on fb)

broccoli seldom disappoints (day 170)

(@archillect)

Captain Jacob's Planet.

" '...But this Ronald Firbank I can't take to at all. Valmouth! Was there ever a novel more coarse? I assure you I hadn't gone very far when I had to put it down.'

'It's out,' Mrs Bedley suavely said, 'as well,' she added, 'as the rest of them.'

'I once met him,' Miss Hopkins said, dilating slightly the retinae of her eyes. 'He told me writing books was by no means easy!' "

--The Flower Beneath the Foot

Modus Vivendi.

heyoka PARSER
virtual AVENUE

many will dispute
my indiscreet REPORT

poet of dreamworlds
unless-restrained SNORER

all will oneday rue
occulted EUREKA

mastbound Graywyvern
odyssey RETRAL

Fiery Pollen.

"the wind
lights
the train left..."

--@poem_exe

But what are the contemporary plot lines from the first two decades of the 21st century that no longer work?

(craig goch dam in wales, via go stargazing, via tim wetherell on fb)

cacerolazo (day 169)

(via miekal and on fb)

Pi-aelindrome.

"As faire Aurora in her purple pall" --The Faerie Queene

Painted Dove.

An arrow into the void
a stain interpreted
    the morning dove,
sovran antidote

mornings it isn't heard
i shuffle about, glum
    invisible door
has shut, away a league

La Louche.

"The gray mists and the grayer houses were full of the menace of memory: they were like traitorous tombs from which the cadavers of dead hours poured forth to assail me with envenomed fangs and talons." --@KlarkashT

Mi fanva.

"a field covered with thorns
twisting, winding
a field covered with thorns
bottom of the well"

--@poem_exe

Pandemic jobs for poets.

rethinking my digital shopping choices (day 168)

(via)

"...and still the shadow of the tower fell athwart Susran like the shadow of an evil gnomon moving on some disastrous dial; and still the umbrage of the power of Malygris lay stagnant as the tomb's night on the minds of men." --Clark Ashton Smith

Night.

"give me a homeland
the taste of pine
a swallow
of flowers"

--@poem_exe

"In each case Lewis treads a fine line: he must throw a veil of unknowing over the secret aspects of the cult for fear of violating its mystery and offending the god; and yet he must include enough coded and deictic specifics to make manifest the holy mystery of the religion."

golden dragonfly
bobs & weaves
choose a side to be on

dreariment
derecho storm

the last of the festival pyres
over the heads of the town
the emperor's seat

quidmining
past the point of ever catching up

i have known enough architecture
to imagine any architecture
yet i crave to know more

tossed from text to text
like a beach ball on the waves

all the dead planets
we could still look upon
we could still cherish

my wanderings
have never ceased

the smell & the cold
are absent
from this ancient stone facade

should my love of desuetude one day enfold
the boxed-up books abandoned to my storage vault

all secrets lead back to childhood
but they lead
back to multiple childhoods

i imagine going to live there
becoming a fan of the puppet shows

again the art of combining
what can this suburb join
that my mind cannot think it

an old poem
with most of the textures missing

so many words like this
a specific occurrence that takes certain initial conditions
untranslatable

all this to teach me
losing can be just as good as keeping

"Writing will wreck you if you let it."

"sleepless all night
the sand unsettles
by the vending machine"

--@poem_exe

"Illness narratives (pathographies) may be broken down into three categories: quest, restitution, and chaos stories."

(glitchphotography on tumblr)

the tribe that was mad for games (day 167)

Zone of Irreversible Strain.

"there is no folly of the beasts of the earth which is not infinitely outdone by the madness of men" --@MobyDickAtSea

Bury me in a Free Land.

My ears do no tartan odor SEAMY
cacerolazo EERIE
in the defunct ARENA
where i'm a zero MINER

for long-ago-lost threads these scissors YEARN
(sounds of snipping ABATE)
ev'rything readworthy BOXED
derision for the AXING

all-provided, strangely TENSE
this gig impalpably EDGED

The Jetty.

"Ah dearest dame (quoth he) how might I see
The thing, that might not be, and yet was donne?"

--The Faerie Queene

"It made me realize, as did the Edith Piaf record in Jean Eustache’s The Mother and the Whore, that the single most important aesthetic effect was the ability to slow down time. I have spent my entire life attempting to arrive at such moments with words."

(via)

brood ix (day 166)

(lanny quarles on fb)

"A half-world, a mockery, a reality sustained only through death and suffering."

"clearing cobwebs
listen to it
on a path through the mountains"

--@poem_exe

The Deck & the Quid.

"1. Words are things

2. Correctness is the beginning of sanctity. To achieve it is to be rewarded.

3. Wordhood and nowness are its rewards.

4. A new day is not jut the word of God, but the work of human agents. Those that do not understand this, that refuse to be challenged, that do not know how to err, that want to shirk from their duties, must be cast out.

5. Wordplay, playfulness, and humorous are the harbingers of truth. When you eliminate the possibility of playfulness, you remove the possibility of learning, and that leads to banality, brutality, and destruction.

6. To find or see a flaw is to find a pathway to the truth, if you can overcome your fear of being laughed at or of looking foolish.

7. Language contains the map to a better world. Those that are most skilled at removing obstacles, misdirection, and lies from language, that reveal the maps that are hidden within, are the guides that will lead us to happiness.

8. Long words that end in -ize and other abstractions are the rocks that will impede our journey. They should be replaced with concrete, specific, evocative words.

9. The data points on the graph of your life – the moments you spend awake, asleep, speaking, silent, moving, resting, focused, distracted – will determine the shape of your time. Keep an eye on the volume and quantity of your moments. Make a record of your life as a way to keep track of your progress towards a better self.

10. Language and its construction is the greatest human power. To unlock it is to unleash our potential, and to master it is to become divine."

--GPT-3 (thread)

     "viking apocalypse"

1.
sky only changes
i drop ice
sound of waters

cicadas might be waning
not so the sirens

2.
garbled inquest · complete
grand theft dragon · next time
i follow the autumn

consigned to earthlike worlds
the morning dove chortles
& tribbles crowd hymnals

'midst ratlicker havoc
clownwhite fathoms find me

3.
island built on stilbs
mountain of nacelles
i climb clownwhite fathoms
back to the I-limit

city by jungle reclaimed
& into language

the only Darjeeling that knows me

4.
come until at dusk it will
mask of pretending
know you
cardboard boxes full of books
my hand wrapped up
like fresh fish · tied
like a catcher's mitt
carpincho's journey
prey to ev'rything
& all of drivers pretending
2 printed-out ballot applications
shades pulled down
though it isn't dark
Darjeeling
or i guess it's Irish Breakfast
of dark of death
of ivory of clothes
of desolation
fleet catcher

wormwood

5.
watering a plant already dead
ripple-shadow never quite the same
clown with hands spread wide
island built on stilbs clogging the stulm
things that will be solved

In the Year Seven-Eptwin-Four.

"But when their bootlesse zeale she did restraine
From her own worship, they her Asse would worship fayn."

--The Faerie Queene

The Ballad of John and Martha.

(via)

the dove alone (day 165)

(@rachael_moravia)

Are we not drawn onward?

"The nightly news venting the nonstop national horror while each commercial break beams images of dads playing catch with sons and moms whirling the latest revolutionary mop across acres of hardwood floor." --@svenbirkerts

Lioconcha Hieroglyphica.

Doomscrolling wind, within this fastness loiter
whether you carry news or just the sound,
aching in my hand
or preface to the crash of brick & mortar.
Somewhere there must transpire some powerful thing
far beyond velleities of will
& i would fain be told,
if telling at all be your bright gear among.
But no, there's only noise.Such dooms as shrill
to poets' ears, are faithless--as of old.

A signed copy of Silverpoints.

"Banisht from liuing wights, our wearie dayes we waste" --The Faerie Queene

(@JoyceCarolOates)

centibillionaire club (day 164)

(via thrilling-tales.webomator.com)

Vaihinger.

"my autumn is just this
a woman sits alone
armadillo"

--@poem_exe

Jakobson.

1.
slow poisoning · the livelong day
jimplecute obit · black milkshake
of plague stork flight · morning coolness
slow fizzle · finalize timesheet

2.
mask breath
nine named storms
the wrong vaccine

the dead plant we keep
a Google Street View leap

of plague stork flight
TARCI PULCE
on Vulture Peak

mask breath
nine named storms

toluol odyssey
losing my keys
on Vulture Peak

on Dead Horse Point
hadu zalas

la polvo
di steli
Cor Caroli

the dead plant we keep
nine named storms

3.
munch my breakfast KARST
in a strange domain ALONE
mouth frothing ROYAL

the trail of a SNAIL
hierodules on the TELLY

4.
hellmouth by the pool
having migrated over
the weathered planking
ghorbat widdershins lost count
of the laps at your peril

5.
stark HEIST
ahead, ABELE
in clusters--just RELAX--
around us as the teasing rays SLANT
of TEXTS

6.
surge SPLAT
stray rice cake PIECE
this afternoon's LEVER
in the rain a draw with ACERS
still TERSE

7.
blue sky
upholding all
more silver than angel
how can i lodge among figments
wind horse

8.
When i upon so many rocks am dashed
this catnip ace of celadon
& crispy world of bloating Mira
falls into a slough of its own coinage.

Ampollosity where wit were needed,
blue sky over a Gothic curse:
who could imagine words anele
the wounds of shieldless aeons' onslaught lunar?

Virus-whispered qibla
carried on the wings of silent breath,
alphabet invented by a grebe
& good for riddles only.

Madder Isle.

"It troubled the mind with a slow, insidious horror, it assailed the senses with an emanating stupor, an effluence as of primal worlds before the creation of light, where life might teem and raven slothfully in the blind ooze." --@KlarkashT

(@BoschBot)

moral injury (day 163)

(via lofiwave on tumblr)

Asemic writing.

An alternative mapping is only useful if it includes things the regular maps leave out, or shows passages unapparent for the ordinary trekkers. When making alternative maps has become an industry, that is already a broken landscape to have to negotiate; yet for all that, a step is still a step.

The map without salesmanship does not exist.

Maximiliana.

afraid ev'ry day
& all night long afraid
one portion allowed for bread
afraid ev'ry day

the product of our poor darg
this dazzling slag
afraid ev'ry day
& all night long afraid

"I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago..."

Flash flood, traces left: one trace being the denial. It would be simple to distinguish metaphor from literal, but for language, which embeds every word in a web of possibilities, & a history of changing meanings.

No Nagasaki loss.

(lanny quarles on fb)

invultuation (day 162)

(@archillect)

"It was in a time of plague that the woman who would come to be known as Julian was born and grew up, and it was in a time of plague that she was beset by a dreadful illness that had claimed so many other lives."

"And of the old time nothing will be said, because nothing will be known." --Ligotti

"...I’m set
On something vast...."

in the boulevards
in the words themselves
his old doom crept

how could he delay
by homegrown wizardry

eyebright nor spectacles
none in the boulevards
none that came before

in the words themselves
his old doom crept

Various neography samples from Aureum Linguae.

"...sillage--the word the French use for the light drift of scent that precedes a person into the room, and that follows in a person's wake, barely discernible and intriguing." --Deirdre Heekin, Libation (2009)

(@archillect)

enablers (day 161)

Roddy McDowell reads HPL "The Hound".

"At which Cocytus quakes, and Styx is put to flight" --The Faerie Queene

Bimagic Queen's Tour.

something vanquished time
thinner & less sound
& settlements more brave
than any heretofore
scaffold & undermine

i wake to reap the years
particular & irksome
here to comprehend
how out of all control
something vanquished time

Obliviator.

"Red pestilence and war
Have now refunded to the usuring wind
The breath of all its peoples..."

--@KlarkashT

queue snort (day 160)

(thesarahshow on tumblr)

A message from the future.

"in the rafters
even the monkey seems to want
rabbits huddle"

--@poem_exe

Churchill on reading.

feral road
a snail of Pluto
runes carved into a matrix of gneiss

i first began to cipher

i honor you in quintessential coil name
out of the blue sky
this eyrie
& its certainties that bleed

whatever feints we once chose now addictive
silhouetted in the bitter glare
or curtained chamber
where we keep our final stuff
enrollment in the exigencies of night
ev'ry-other-human-sighted dread

these abide
the dark green turgor of the Tsalal
dissolving muskeg
Miskatonic azalea
path of art
kranio kristala with its starry grout
the dead veldt
burning never far
as the dandiprat's mouse-invisible wage

flight of virus-bearing breath
smites this intricate boojum-tree hejira

transfusion from a hot ghost
mi-nokto wodwo
present in the fine sands of Ubar
shaken from my cuffs beneath the baobab
kind Moloch
messenger of rook

echoing through the tart goaf
sound of the plastic trash cans rolling in dark
parbreak wolf
simmering dozenal abductee
on the spry ubac

honor i act, Cairo Noh
canicular kiloton dimness
parting clouds

some veshch there is · does not tolerate a wall
five more months says the grackle
here in our plush cave
good to go
& none of this will ever threaten Marduk

cherish the maskless Ucalegon
cultist of specious cargo
stranger to my poem
acnestis this penultimate snow
on the grass
where dawdles some delinquent squirt of a mage
subservient to the least image
in the shrouded urn

what madness
churns in its fine alembic
streets full of cars the whole exciting charade
diving aasvogel
smokes rush in
catapult & shard music
where do we go in dim Carcosa
as tentative, as unbearable, as deep
& dying will be spiralling pearl

a reason enough
among so many fathoms of asphodel
futhark's dream

Hong Kong protest slang.

"These are the days of second-hand fantasies and antiquated hysteria." --Thomas Ligotti

"...the mist, the pines, the turning call..."

(john inmon via liz moran on fb)

vore (day 159)

(via)

"...he still found himself confronted by a thing that outraged his reason; a thing that distorted the known face of the world with unearthly, hideous madness, and mingled a malign chaos with its ordered workings." --@KlarkashT

"...something darker hovered over their resignation, a ghoul of artistic inertia that seemed less the corollary of unfavorable circumstance than the furtive stranglehold of a curse."

"DYSTOPIA (Palindrome by Word)

Nowhere was truth less respected.

Gradually,
we humans,
under persisting uncertainty,
suffered.

We struggled.

We suffered uncertainty,
persisting under humans
we gradually respected less.

Truth was nowhere."

--@AnthonyEtherin

Ghorbat.

1.
painting the tree stump
with our second-best bomb
socialist teeth
Cocytus quakes

second-best bomb given
to the unholy western
walking on mown grass
to the place where i'll finish

2.
becoming a named storm
on the brink of furnished tarns
becoming ill while
visiting Santa

are we not drawn onward
silver as industry
hagoday rattle
walking on mown grass

there's just one more thing
waiting in the shadows
we were once one of you too
& a second-best bomb was good enough

3.
it seems to me my days are full
though moments drop & plant no cairn
nor any aftermath to share

it seems to me my days are full
i contemplate fast realms of gray
i measure where has flown the dove
it seems to me my days are full

though moments drop & plant no cairn

Della Cruscan poetry.

"glimmer of tea water
the north pole
the trail of a snail"

--@poem_exe

(@archillect)

white wedding (day 158)

"Human beings are difficult. We’re difficult to ourselves, we’re difficult to each other. And we are mysteries to ourselves, we are mysteries to each other."

"...the living Leviathan has never yet fairly floated himself for his portrait..." --@MobyDickatSea

"Because the darkness was already here."

signpost eaten like birdseed
sound of my growing hair
iyoh
thioglycolate

hour of realization
hour of dove song

Kumu.

Songs are the shortest distance, as numbers are the longest, to the heart.

(@DCist via @MikeSpeaks)

the sad horse (day 157)

("The Roaring 20s" by Derek via)

"None of it done and yet it’s over."

"On being told that Stalker should be faster and more dynamic, Tarkovsky replied:'[T]he film needs to be slower and duller at the start so that the viewers who walked into the wrong theatre have time to leave before the main action starts.' " --@TieryasXu via @aliettedb

Four fingers on each hand.

the things that can be thought
are being thought enough
the rest gets written off
that book is shut

super spreader event
from one malignant sough
pity the working stiff
at the home front

Scrabblegrams.

"But we all live our lives from the inside of our bodies out, not from the outside in. Which is why fiction has the texture that it does." --Samuel R Delany, The Atheist in the Attic (2018)

(by @16pxl)

fictions of the interlude (day 156)

(pi-slices on tumblr)

Red piano.

"o flea! whatever you do
all that remains
blows with wild piercing voice
of the autumn breeze"

--@poem_exe

The sound of penguin feet.

from these tombs
emerge tarnished
the boards warped
withered the trail
dragonfly pan
turquoise pool

words vanish
by stark veto
enough that
not lost knowledge
dragonfly pan
turquoise pool

some high whirr
for the harsh stroll
i write this
ruing the burn
dragonfly pan
turquoise pool

"It’s been difficult for me to write anything these days that isn’t prefaced with how difficult it is to do much of anything but survive during the final death throes of America as we know it."

"the silent crowd
in mist "

--@poem_exe

(@svenbirkerts)

the man that loved bruckner (day 155)

(lanny quarles on fb)

"You really can’t understand till you see it...and that’s the problem. Nobody is seeing it"

"Ever I am haunted by an eerie notion, that the Beast comes nightly to earth from the red comet which passes like a fiery wain above Averoigne; and by day it returns to the comet, having eaten its fill of that provender for which it seeks." --@KlarkashT

Certain myths.

these murderous GAMES
pry APART

Aklo chase · ash cloak burning at the plunge brink
from micro thwart to MACRO

one iota of the tallow lamp
these bridges soon become spurned ERROR

wingbeat overheard
of plague STORK

some of us · tried to · reason
O alien passerby, these pancaking COSTS

one starts by walking out to check mail
Dave Brubeck OCTET

walk away Rene Magritte
fremd STOMA

these murderous games & for what? mere power
Cracker Jack to TEMPT

on a high & windy hill
plasma STATE

hajj without the crowds · fourth Bartok string quartet
now the dogs of war with kiteslipt BASTE

games pry apart my eyelids
my brass TIARA

on a high
& lonely hill where fardels INFER

"zzee-at" goes the goldeneye during brillig
"zzee-at" & my panoply's AFIRE

petrification of flesh
episode RERAN

Graywyvern
estivates in the Cthulhucene ARENA

Godmothers of horror.

"The only way to turn something that really happened into something that happens on paper is to attack it in the beginning the way a puppy attacks an old shoe." --Shirley Jackson

(@archillect)

ring of naphtha (day 154)

(painting by jane fletcher on fb)

More Notes from Home.

"Close to our bows, strange forms in the water darted hither and thither before us; while thick in our rear flew the inscrutable sea-ravens." --@MobyDickatSea

Kufic book artist. (thread)

light of a summer
morning · stories it can tell
to those on death row

Zekia Agob.

"not very anxious
tell me where i'm bound, to which
the silence"

--@poem_exe

. (pic by geof huth on fb)

inflation saints (day 153)

"The hero of Huysmans’ classic novel, À rebours, comments that 'the works of Barbey d’Aurevilly were the only ones whose ideas and style offered the gaminess he so loved to savour in the Latin and decadent, monastic writers of past ages.' "

"A book spends a very short time being written into existence; it spends the rest of its life being read into existence." --M John Harrison

"Swinton’s remote diction is combined with slow, crawling tracking shots over the surfaces of giant concrete structures that we are asked to parse as traces of abandoned future cultures."

wet gecko
to fall asleep in the shadow of an aphorism
report
in case i have forgotten one iota
of the tallow lamp
being one of those who do

with my right of prior refusal

"The early books critique the lazy assumptions of the fantasy genre while the later books recast the earlier stories as myths or half-remembered dreams."

"Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow" --Bob Dylan

(via)

abah hoqoi (day 152)

The Big Book of Modern Fantasy.

"Cor Caroli, the killing star, shone out above the Snort through wisps of high cirrus. Down by the river, the wrecking yards were silent." --The Centauri Device (1974)

Dreadful Hollow.

stint straggler
widdershinto
angel stoop
is attained brogue
parkour egg
against slouch perne

The Friday Poem: Massacre.

"Gray city of strong towers and clustering spires" --Lionel Johnson

(via)

the fleet (day 151)

(@abandonedameric)

Mechanical owl.

"He was as one who awaited a dark and secret summons, not knowing whence it would come, or at what hour." --@KlarkashT

Return of the Lo-Bap.

1.
syllabus
Cyanian
floods alcove
gaff obol luxe
osage script
pyre dank onset

2.
rattle on the skylight
the heated sand
corridors winding

come unravelled
sepia cloudscape

step by step i parcel out
the dimensions
of my panic bulletinsv

rattle on the skylight
lingering carpal twinge

3.
the Black Fleet
reflects fathoms
in the gray dawn
we dim our hopes
noon varies
count of victims
bladed gifts
join the Black Fleet

4.
receptacle · seepage measured
afflict flaming · terrapin flaw
though cats recall · Cor Caroli
it's a bad berth · on a slow boat
dreadful hollow · at Wadi Aceldama
my own dumb impatience
wall of mist with nothing on the other side

5.
screens of the towers falling
long shadows of morning
days beyond retrieval
but i was there

run to the end of story
unseen airplane overhead
lose count of the laps
lose track of the days

poet of triolets
& of fine blue porcelain
looks out through these eyes
at the weathered planks of a deck

"Loneliness is a part of writing, isn’t it?"

"full moon
my best friend
a flute"

--@poem_exe

(@CrookedCosmos)

new rules for the rule giver (day 150)

(via @boschbot)

"So I just found out that Dogewave art is a thing."

We are actually faced with two plagues. One plague is this highly-contagious disease without a cure. The other is the nightmarish stupidity of our fellow Americans.

Ice penitentes.

canticle for Celan
black fur & nacre
t'ward comet crane
wash without getting clean

At the age of 100, to the astonishment of the local ministry in her home at the foot of the Alps, Alexandra David-Neel asked for a fresh passport. She wanted to go back to Tibet.

"But often in my dream, I see again the incognizably distorted stars, and share the confusion and bafflement of a lost people, as they pore above their useless charts, and take the altitude of a deviated sun." --@KlarkashT

(via @svenbirkerts)

how to write a poem in a time of quarantine (day 149)

(tim wetherell on fb)

Dance, dance, while the hive collapses.

"To me there is nothing better than a damp, grey day, and a damp, grey mist, and greyness all about me, and freedom to become a part of it." --@IComptonBurnett

Downward spiral to the lost ark. (thread)

gray of near rain without the rain coming
it stays like this for hours

Sadalbari. Tchu-kor.
A Snakefinger song.

growing gaunt
in the certitude of annihilation

"I find it deeply ironic—but absolutely predictable—that my best books are out of print while the crappiest thing I ever wrote—The Centauri Device-–tootles along under the rubric 'masterwork'."

"Pause and remain, I pray, and tell me who thou art, who comest thus to the accursed solitude wherein I die." --@KlarkashT

(lanny quarles on fb)