thee istsfor manity reader

Idle Class Chatter (redux)

“Just carry a glass or something.”

“I’ve heard the most intriguing things about you.”

(light classical tune is playing)

“Really?”

“Will no one hold you accountable?”

“Me? Never. You?”

“I don’t know. But I feel like we’re on the road to nowhere.”

An early sign of change was spotted outside. It could be seen through the grand room sliders. Clouds were gathering in formation and staring at the dinner party guests. There was tinkling glass and the smell of burning lamb wafting from the kitchen.

“Hey, get a load of this. Look at the clouds.”

“Oh my goodness.”

“That’s amazing.”

The smoke became dense and flames began spreading through the living room shag. Then the chaise longe caught fire and the ottoman whooshed into flames.

“Hey, look. The clouds are forming a ring around the setting sun.”

“It looks like a pumpkin pie festooned with whipped—“

“Folks, please move out into the backyard. The house is on fire.”

“Oh, my god. No!”

“That’s ok. The clouds and sun do our bidding. They always do. Remember, we are the first estate. We’ll build a new house, no matter. It’s you good, god-fearing folks that can’t be replaced. Grab your drinks and let’s head outside. The help will do what they can in here.”

“Wee!”

“Off we go.”

“Oh, Splendid.”

What I’m Reading:

A shotgun echoes despairingly from the valley.

Choral mushrooms.

Queen Anne’s lace sweetens wild carrot breath.

The earth’s rigid plates drift below the daisy.

— Lewis Meyers / “Summer Letters”

I Heard (redux)

I heard a Colombian river was full of cocaine hippos.

I heard we’ve passed 7 of the 9 thresholds that make earth habitable for human life.

I heard hard times are coming.

I heard we can lose ourselves in augmented reality instead.

I heard the clunking of skulls into a multi-tiered pyramid.

I heard the cuckoo’s call before the theft of the thrush’s eggs.

I heard your footfalls as you left.

I heard your heels like hammers clacking into the haze.

What I’m Reading:

“I’ve tried to be more Romantic, it does nu good for me / So I tek a Reggae Riddim an build me poetry,”

— Benjamin Zephaniah / “City Psalms”

unlocking the vault—

where i dont upbraid myself continuously—where john currin paintings dont come to life—where id like to be in some remote place like yellowknife—but as the earth is burning there—and there remains no place to go—that isnt burning—and there remain too many places to go to upbraid my fellow man—because life is one endless upbraiding—i unbraid myself some more—upbraid my boulder—upbraid existence—upbraid the cure— because they remind me of camus—with that song—i even upbraid myself—again—i dont upbraid my curry chicken—because its ethiopian—or should i say eritrean—but as im not certain i upbraid that as well—im upcycling my upbraiding—im braying in my seat right now—as i mute my video and sound on zoom—which i often upbraid—which brings me joy—oh joy—

What I’m Reading:

There is less and less difference
between your shadow

and the shadow inside you
and all the shadows,

— James Richardson / “Any Evening”

What I’m Reading:

The official theme of this poem is / The official theme of all my poems which is / You get in love and then you die!

— Hera Lindsey Bird / Juvenilia

Poor Clockface Bradbury (redux)

Bradbury said he didn’t need an alarm clock. I saw the phrase in passing without its context, so I’m left with this vision of a man machine with a clock face for a visage. A veritable clock tower face with bonging lower register bells coming out of speakers on the obverse side of the head. So head into fall with the idea of a Bradbury clock head sitting next to you at Starbucks; power washing his car next to yours at the d.i.y. car wash; trying on jeans at Walmart—because that’s America’s super store—because that’s where clock-faced clock heads do their denim best! Now, rack into focus on that jingoistic demoniacal guy by the tube socks—the one wearing the t-shirt that reads: Your Face Makes Me Soft!—notice how he stares at clock head Bradbury. He doesn’t like his clock face, and wants to do him grievous bodily harm—because that’s the way he rolls in BIG SKY country. Watch him guesstimate and plannify in that dim fashion of his—how he’ll cook up revenge because he doesn’t like “thee other.” Yeah, somewhere in the parking lot, at the end of the quarter-mile line up of pickup trucks with them stickers that inveigle others to pray to an angry god. Yeah, there. Because America!

What I’m Reading:

He gently folded my head into my chest
And my face into my groin
Friend, let me show you an informal way
to achieve dreams

— Zan de Parry / “I Let The Terrorist Touch My Head” / Cold Dogs

Memorable Stuff I Read This Week

I don’t think I have much time left, so I’m going to say what I want to say. Even if nobody’s listening, it won’t bother me any. I just want to say what comes to me, the way I want to say it. Because I really don’t think I’m going to be thinking or saying anything for much longer.

— Mieko Kawakami / “No Flowers”

my emptiness has a lake in it   deep and watery 
with several temperaments milk   cola  beer 

— Deborah Landau / “Dear Someone”

Populations of bed bugs (Cimex lectularius) that feed on humans boomed approximately 8,000 years ago — around the same time as the first cities started to form. The findings hint that these insects were the first urban pests. “When we started to live in cities, we brought all these people together, and they all had their own bedbugs with them,” says entomologist Warren Booth.

— Ian Sample / “Humans moving to ancient cities sent bedbug numbers soaring, say scientists” / The Guardian

Hands in my pockets, I came up with nothing
but keepsakes of dust, a dulled archipelago of air
stretching past my arms

— Christopher Buckley / “Desire”

The brazenness of [Donald Trump’s] self-enrichment resembles nothing seen in any earlier White House. This is American corruption on the scale of a post-Soviet republic or a postcolonial African dictatorship.

— David Frum / “The Trump Presidency’s World-Historical Heist” / The Atlantic

my emptiness has an aqueduct in it 
selves rushing through channels 

dissolving    washing away in streaks 

— Deborah Landau / “Dear Someone”

Death means not being able to come back to this place, to this body. It’s the inability to ever come back, the goneness, that makes death death. But I’m not afraid of being gone, and I’m not afraid of death.

— Mieko Kawakami / “No Flowers”

What I’m Listening To: 

Never tips over
Stands up on his own
He is a blockhead
Thinking man, full grown
He comes well prepared

— Devo / “Blockhead”

Siri Activates, Records & Mishears

And they say:

OK, I call Panini. 

I got potatoes. 

I got some blueberries. 

I got some popcorn and chips and a little dessert type thing.

I would’ve gotten it the day that I came to do the oil change but I couldn’t get anything cold. I didn’t know how long it would be, right?; so now you’re not doing anything until Saturday afternoon. 

I’ll do laundry. 

Give me a chance I have the bike I bought at Walmart of all things that had white lightning—a  degreaser and and lubricant that they sell at REI for $16. They had it for nine dollars so I bought it. I degraded and lubricated the bike put the fenders back on what for a ride. 

Nothing perfect sounds perfect!

Brakes are working?

Don’t know?

It’s supposed to rain tomorrow. 

You’re gonna have to have a reminder for myself without picking up the prescription. I called the pharmacy and I said I may not come till Saturday and she’s like that’s fine. It’ll still be here cause I don’t know if we’re gonna get it tomorrow.

I’ll make a point of going to get it for you tomorrow, you don’t have to deal with it and we won’t deal with it on Saturday. 

I’ll drop you off here and get the mail open at seven on Monday through Friday 7 AM to 8 PM.

I was wondering if you want to go to rose tomorrow for wine and cheese…

Whine? Oh, jeez, I think it’s recording our conversation…

What I’m Reading:

Turn off the factories, ground the airplanes, stop the mining, junk the cars. But they won’t, and even if they did, it would still be a catastrophe. It’s going to break wide open. Within the next couple of years, David, it’s going to break. . .There’s going to be the biggest bust since man began scratching marks on rocks, that’s what!

— Kate Wilhelm / Where Late the Sweet Birds Sang

susurrus

squeeze
steal
sit

What I’m Reading:

even the most difficult path
is a beginning

— Charles Bernstein / “Clouds After Rain”