catastrophe is beautiful

The Best Stuff I Read This Week

“What’s hard about art is getting any good—and then getting better. What’s hard is solving problems with infinite solutions and your finite brain.”

— Elisa Gabbert / “Why Write?”


“How do we go on living when the very things we once depended upon have become undependable?”

—Elizabeth Rush / “What Antarctica’s Disintegration Asks of Us”


Some say calamity
and some catastrophe
is beautiful”

— Maureen N. McLane / “Some Say”


“You mustn’t assume that aesthetic expression is the prime motive for writing; it is really only a means to the more profound end. So don’t worry about it if you write out of sadness or hate or love—fear—or fascination, the important thing, if you wish to do it, is to write.”

— Ralph Ellison / The Selected Letters of Ralph Ellison


“Even when … I started writing fervently about climate change, I must admit that I didn’t initially imagine myself living through it in this fashion—as so many of us have in this globally overheated summer of 2022.”

— Tom Engelhardt / “The Twilight Years of American Hegemony”


“… we can’t solve the climate crisis without solving the problem of inequality.”

— Damien Gayle / “Down to Earth”


If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ is worth any number of old ladies”

— William Faulkner / The Paris Review Interview

What I’m Listening To:

“Have you seen Gary with his tinfoil ball?
He used to love to kick it with his stumpy
legs”

— Dry Cleaning / “Gary Ashby”

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like a target

SoFla Hometown Blues

Sometimes you feel like a target
Sometimes the memories clamp like straight jacket confines
Sometimes you have to visit family
Sometimes it feels like home again
Sometimes you’d rather be anywhere else in this bent and melting world
Sometimes you have to leave again
Sometimes, nearly always now, you prefer your new home
Sometimes the old hometown is a millstone dragging you down to the bottom of Biscayne Bay
And you’re happy to leave it again, and again, and again

And you’re on the road again.

What I’m Reading:

“I am not yet 40, and in my lifetime, climate change has gone from something that we thought would happen in the future to something happening now to something accelerating at such a surprising pace that it makes most of our feeble attempts to reckon with it outdated before they even get underway. This great acceleration has now reached all the way to Antarctica.”

—Elizabeth Rush / “What Antarctica’s Disintegration Asks of Us”

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leave it twice

Waxen Wings Tanka

Like the cormorant,
Drying its wings in the sun,
I am melting fast.

Welcome to New Florida—
‘State so Right(!)—you’ll leave it twice.

What I’m Reading:

“Useless! Useless! 
—heavy rain driving
into the sea”

— Jack Kerouac / “Useless! Useless!”

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werewolves and camellias

Dilatory Prelate

The prelate drafts an encyclical announcing that the werewolves and camellias will be delivered on Friday to all diocese in the mountainous regions. It encourages all Englishmen and yogis to traipse about nude and re-stage the highlights of the Inquisition.

The document goes on to explain that castanets, “fingertip cymbals” (for he has forgotten that they are called zills) and censers will be distributed liberally among the cairns about the ridge tops—“Help Yourselves,” he flourishes in his complicated calligraphy.

He insists that discussions of reincarnation will not be part of the programming. And furthermore, that “Virgins Need Not Apply.”

He’s buoyant with his ideas, they come to him in torrents. He surmises that it must be something about that moldy bread at breakfast. He continues with momentum:

“Recently 50,000 perforations were distributed throughout the bishopric. The adhesives which bound them were of an open-ended and mysterious nature—lacking in optimism and alternating and overlapping in swells of violin trills when touched or added to morning cereals. They are altogether too piquant and picaresque for our flock’s conservative constitutions—Please Avoid! Toecaps and personal backyard derricks will be distributed in their stead. A recurrence of tedium and inefficiency is all that is required and asked of you. OBEY!”

But a sort of boredom swamp bounded by alienation hammock islands spread out before him. Never has he been gripped by such a visceral ennui—as if it was bequeathed to him as a grand heirloom that he should wear around his neck.

And he does! He wears it around his neck.

And it is heavy, baby. A ‘heavy-o-sity’ he’s never experienced—or maybe once, when he missed the 1847 College of Cardinals’ sabbatical.

He considers the Ancient Mariner and the awful pestilential albatross crawling with monosyllabic bird mites (wa, wa, wa, wa, wa…they stridulated) around his neck, and the ‘heavy-o-sity’ becomes too much to bear.

He tears up the draft encyclical, inkwells his pen (he never liked the damn thing anyway) and laments, Why’d I ever take up writing? He descends to the cellar for a bottle of wine.

There is no remuneration in fermentation, but the bottom of a bottle is as good as any place in this world, he reasons.

And he adds: At the least I’m not in Florida, so I have that going for me. But there was something poetic about werewolves and camellias…

He’ll eventually come round to that.

What I’m Reading:

“The writer doesn’t write for the reader. He doesn’t write for himself, either. He writes to serve … something. Somethingness. The somethingness that is sheltered by the wings of nothingness … The writer writes to serve that great cold elemental grace which knows us.”

— Joy Williams / “Uncanny the Singing that Comes from Certain Husks”

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maybe the kids

Thee “New Florida’s Always Right!” (found haiku)

Keep pets near. (So dear!)
Do not feed alligators …
Well … maybe the kids.

What I’m Reading:

“To me, the frontier is a tundra of intergenerational amnesia.”

— Lisa Wells / Believers: Making a Life at the End of the World

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wash us clean

Diluvian

An enormous vapor plume,
metastasizes thousands of feet
up in the air, billows, gains
strength & furious glower,
& grows in the vast
Pacific.

The planet’s duliluvial wrath—
gonna’ wash us clean—
gonna’ put it right—
is gonna’ wash us all away.

Don’t wake me—
I want to go while I sleep.

What I’m Reading:

“Then everything was darkness
In a great … big … night.”

— Langston Hughes / “Sylvester’s Dying Bed”

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for your safety

Tendril it Straight

She’s gonna’ tendril it straight … but she could tell it straighter, and tendril a strategy that is easy to understand.

Her words are usually turgid, garish and lurid—feel the wrath of her bombast. This may not be a particularly happy strategy, but again, at least it’s not some awful strategy for complacency.

It’s in the same general stylistic verity as her previous work, and the specter of hopelessness resounds of “over-dialed diatribe.” This is all set against the backdrop of natural events careening into breakdown—think the Permian Mass Extinction Event. (You get the drift!)

It may be akin to the strategy of a mango during the dog days of a muzzled mango-less summer. (But this has not been proven as of this writing.)

She touts the sunroof on her 2001 Mazda to anyone who will listen. She joyrides an excavator wearing ancient pantaloons.

She’s an avatar for perilous and acute dehydration.

She is an avid matinee moviemaker, and leads colloquia on film gate benedictions and kleig light embargos on overnight shoots. David Lynch is too mainstream, she says.

She continues to have an acute aversion to poorly devised mise en scène, and the continued yaw of a cinematographer’s shaky handheld work.

She has a propensity for gala non-linearity and jump-cuts. She acknowledges that she must write with others in mind, and shoot straight if she wants to be seen.

During a recent intrusion she disowned her previous work and said she’d work for a fiver and wolfbane, and only then consider other possible expenses.

In short, as much as she would like others to enjoy her work, she’ll continue to make what inspires her in manuscript form, and then shoot, tendril, and chance assemble it for multiple fivers.

If others come along and watch—well, all the better.

What I’m Reading:

“Is this where I am supposed to apologize? Not
only to the fish, but to the whole lake, land, not only for me
but for the generations of plunder and vanish.”

— Ada Limón / “The First Fish”

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hope is contagious

The Best Stuff I Read This Week

“The cumulative effect of thousands of ethical actions can help to save and improve our world for future generations.”

— Jane Goodall & Douglas Abrams / The Book of Hope


“I am willing to walk
away, willing to be
on fire, to blaze
to Blake, to sink
into the moon’s
aphorism and
its garden of figures.”

— Peter Gizzi / “Song”


“Let’s stop sleepwalking towards the destruction of our planet by climate change. Today it is Pakistan. Tomorrow it could be your country.”

— António Guterres / U.N. Secretary-General, August 30, 2022


“The average life expectancy of Americans fell precipitously in 2020 and 2021, the sharpest two-year decline in nearly 100 years and a stark reminder of the toll exacted on the nation by the continuing coronavirus pandemic … In 2021, the average American could expect to live until the age of 76 … The figure represents a loss of almost three years since 2019, when Americans could expect to live, on average, nearly 79 years.”

— Roni Caryn Rabin / “U.S. Life Expectancy Falls Again in ‘Historic’ Setback” / The New York Times


“This virus is going to continue to throw 210-mile-an-hour curveballs at us, so get ready…It’s not done with us just yet.’’

— Michael Osterholm / “What we’ve learned about COVID-19” / The Boston Globe


“As usual, predators are wreaking havoc on the internet. Predators are the only people in town. If she had to summarize the plot of contemporary life, the mother would say: it’s about everyone punishing each other for things they didn’t do.”

— Tess Gunty / The Rabbit Hutch


“Hope is contagious. Your actions will inspire others.”

— Jane Goodall & Douglas Abrams / The Book of Hope

What I’m Listening To:

“They were planting seeds at night
To grow a made-up paradise
Where the truth was auto-tuned”

— Gorillaz / “Cracker Island”

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greedy the image

beneath the banyan (tanka)

greedy the image
reedy the voice that quavers
needy the sharp tooth
that abstracts the raw terror
beneath the fig banyan tree

images: p. remer

What I’m Reading:

“… but we have seen
The moon in lonely alleys make
A grail of laughter of an empty ash can …”

— Hart Crane / “Chaplinesque”

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the tactless foot

State I’m In

I took umbrage at the penumbra—
The darkling darkening of my mood—
Was it the partial eclipse of the moon?
(Its waxing moony-moony face: jejune)
Or was it a flaring sunspot’s craquelure of quietude?

Or was it the plague?
Or the fascist wave?
Or the tactless foot?
Of the biomass soot?

Or was it the phallic gun-shaped state
I’m in?

What I’m Reading:

“In the year 2022, three multibillionaires own more wealth than the bottom half of American society – 160 million Americans. Today, 45% of all new income goes to the top 1%, and CEOs of large corporations make a record-breaking 350 times what their workers earn.”

— Bernie Sanders / The Guardian

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