A Long Quadrennial

This is not a planet you want to be on—trying to make sequins of the ineffable.

Try the bipedalon—cedar straightaways—and sprinkle my flaymakers.

This is not a planet you want to be on—layer the burrs on the willful lads and some such.

Try the bipedalon—mutton chop my sincerity whiskers—and say you love the smell.

These are plasters—cover your fledgling cuts with wonder and don’t soil yourself.

Try the bipedalon—a grand hold on your last playlist—play it out through the left speaker.

This is a warning— I screech at the superintendent holding thee syringes.

Try the bipedalon—cedilla straightaways as wrong weavers—spore at bold cedillas.

This is a scud of cretinism—be free—you thinker and imbiber of crease coalitions.

Try the bipedalon—get your backpack—get your censors fixed and your vanity documentaries filmed.

This will be a long quadrennial.

Sequester yourself in snags and scurrilousness.

What I’m Reading:

It was one of her last long essays, and she wrote it at a time when she—like many people now—was shocked, concerned for her country’s future, and wondering how best to respond. 

Americans have voted for a politics of fear, anger, and hatred, and those of us who oppose this politics are now trying to figure out how we can oppose it usefully,” she wrote. She wanted to defend her country but was wary of the potential of outrage to draw well-meaning people into vicious circles of action and reaction. “I’m looking for a place to stand, or a way to go, where the behavior of those I oppose will not control my behavior.”

— Julie Phillips / “The Way of Water: On the Quiet Power of Ursula K. Le Guin’s Activism” / Lithub.com