a tabasco drip

Writing to the British Shipping Forecast Blues

Paranoiac-critical to channel light vessel automatic—distortion to static—yankee hotel foxtrots in 3-minute fixes.

I’m good—occasionally moderately—and now I have the unveiling change heebie-jeebies. The only thing constant is impermanence.

And sure showers are good—but all day? all night? All right this is where we get off, get out, get thee behind.

I crossed a continent for a funeral that was cancelled. Crenelations and observations of the self lead to what? How do you find it? It was really an unveiling of sorts not a funeral.

So if the funereal is delayable when you start to notice your own breathing? Death is transmissible, baby.

We will now have surgeries instead of threnodies, but you may lament anytime you wish from anywhere on this globe — including Berwick, Guernsey and somewhere near the Hebrides. Oh what pain and navel gazing this has become. Get me outta’ heah!

Due to surgeries and broken bones I am 1400 miles away from home, untethered and at the edge of the country, in a state where they let the kids get measles (unvaccinated and in unconsidered ways) . . . because . . . America!

Got me a good pile of books to burn here.

I’se so crazy now I actually read an Ayn Rand book because . . . America. Because thee internets said so.

I have weather reports in this dead lilt, and the humidity creeps in, and the spring breakers break in, and the shootings multiply, the car chases are thrice daily, and the shootings once an hour . . . because . . . America! Land of the insurrection special.

I’se got the Saint Vitus dance without knowing the steps. I’m stepping in soggy watermelons, shagging the wheaties, and suffering the waffles. I’se got the cross country Zoom blues.

Remember, every good boy deserves fudge — and emphysema hacks. Who need Big Tobacco when microplastics are gonna kill us as slow as a tabasco drip.

I hope your good intentions pay off, because La Niña is about to make an appearance and the Atlantic is the hottest it’s ever been. The Gulf Stream is slowing, and getting hotter, and I’m hot with fleas and full of unrealized funereal bedbugs.

There’s a weird cadence to all of this, and if you figure it out, please, I beg you, PLEASE, let the rest of us know.

What I’m Reading:

I’ve spent my life running from one bit of earth to another. Carrying my smashed peace of mind into the oddest gangs of peoples. Take this one for instance. I bring them music and laughter and poetry and they throw me into a pitlatrine.

— Dambudzo Marechera / Black Sunlight

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cleft and warble

hybrid poem via keyboard chance operations

got passage recount time
presage press : bunny musculature
policy sets vs set accounts
treble and clean

cleft and warble

every app has its own keyboard

this is all broke down, no chance of fixin’

What I’m Reading:

this is the year that police revolvers,
stove-hot, blister the fingers
of raging cops,
and nightsticks splinter in their palms

— Martin Espada / “Imagine the Angels of Bread”

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from maddened machismo

Memorable Stuff I Read This Week

Pleiades, seven little goats, little eyes, seven sisters, / Subaru, pearls, hen with chicks, united. / Taken there, held, or forever running from maddened machismo, / forever unchecked — forever.

— Allison Adelle Hedge Coke / Look at This Blue


My mother taught me that you can follow behind everyone and walk in the dust, or you can walk ahead through the unbroken thorny brush. You may get blood on your ankles, but you arrive first and not covered in the residue of others. This land is fertile and blessed in many regards, and the men ain’t the only one’s entitled to its bounty.

— Lynn Nottage / Ruined


Maybe it was the thing itself. Just being there, together. Two little girls who knew what nobody else in the world knew—how not to ask questions. How to believe what had to be believed. There was politeness in that reluctance and generosity as well.

— Toni Morrison / “Recitatif”


Less than 4% of the artists in the Modern Art sections are women, but 76% of the nudes are female.

— Guerrilla Girls / “Do women have to be naked to get into the Met Museum?” / 2012 update to the 1989 piece


Microplastics have also recently been discovered in human blood and breast milk, indicating widespread contamination of people’s bodies. The impact on health is as yet unknown but microplastics have been shown to cause damage to human cells in the laboratory. The particles could lodge in tissue and cause inflammation, as air pollution particles do, or chemicals in the plastics could cause harm.

— Damian Carrington / “Microplastics found in every human placenta tested in study” / The Guardian


When he busted my face, oftentimes, my diligence went unnoticed / When he claimed I was in car wrecks / his mom believed. / Nearly killed me in one, so must be / must be a car wreck every other week, each time / purple faded, teeth repaired, gauze removed / bruised from brow to jaw, pummeled / what a mess

— Allison Adelle Hedge Coke / Look at This Blue


Ascetic or carnivore. Men will crack your glaze

even if you leave them before morning. Pigs
ride the sirens in packs.

— Brenda Shaughnessy / “Postfeminism”

What I’m Listening To:

I won’t take no lip from the devil
I won’t take no lip from you

— Mama Zu / “Lip”

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bore only pits

a dismembered day haiku

soufflé and sachets—
the brink of a fruitful life—
which bore only pits

What I’m Reading:

He longs to see sparrows again,
those bustling, chirruping little birds
possessed of the obstinate power
of the songless

— Paul Bailey / “Missing”

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rid of meaning

Dendritic Bolus Blues (Dream at 3:38 am) [redux]

Instead of changing my shirt I changed my mind and requested a reverse baptism. Get the father son and the Laszlo Moholy Ghost outta’ my body. Get ‘em all outta’ my soul. Forthwith.

Can’t look back, won’t look back. Ozymandius Motors for all your autonomic pleas. Automatism at 350 horsepower ////// Wayside shangri-las and all the disjecta ejected in your superego moods during our President’s Day Sale!

You get rid of meaning by getting rid of meaning. 

Start with Rasputin and work your way out from there. The peach cream turns bitter so allow me to lie down under your steamroller. Play me “Steamroller Blues” through your tinny transistor speaker and do your worst. Go.

Docket your trash—use pincers and gloves. Keep me at arm’s distance for I’ve seen a handkerchief of clouds (tzara-cumuli).

Keep me at a distance—I’ve heard a talking •Hugo Ball• head singing:

gadji beri bimba … tuffum I zimbra.

What I’m Reading:

But one state over, bookshelves have no Black authors, cleaned
out. Our books remain under attack, Kings in a game of chess.

— A. Van Jordan / “Integrated School Books” Arpeggio

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a merry place

A poop pouch for a brain.

A merry place to lose an eyeball or your spleen.

Being splenetic is only the half of it

There is no self awareness.

What I’m Reading:

In Key West, the living surround the dead,
who are the best neighbors
silent and agreeable as well-swept porches.

— Jacqueline Allen Trimble / “Walking Beside the Cemetery, Olivia Street, Key West”

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scissors and fluff

sleep deprivation tanka

any quintuplets?
another colloquium?
bring scissors and fluff.
gnu stiffeners and goatherds—
it’s a party, tape your fall.

What I’m Reading:

I wasn’t used to being a confused person, but that was how life was. Sometimes the events of the world were clear, and at other times they rearranged themselves in such a way that nothing made sense, and even if they did make sense to other people, they made no discernible sense to you. Either that, or I was jet-lagged, which was another possible explanation.

— Maya Binyam / Hangman

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other deceptive codpieces

Eyeless in Tabula Rasa

A monocle in the 1970s was as prideful as a pince nez. Today we wear neoliberal coke bottle-bottom horn rims. . .

These ideas are drawn from a particularly short-sighted cilia’s lamentations entitled: Perky Monoliths and Other Deceptive Codpieces, which radically reshape our units of perception by oilskinned feet and acorned meters. I argue that VISION—especially inner-mind vision is both an artistic forte and also the seat of nascent oboe skronk and aleatory stress—and that filial-cilial moment emerged as a consignment of periwinkle-specific aphids.

The decorators (exterior types) saw a rapidly expanding sexy-eel consort marinade as a new obsession. Ascetics they ain’t! Among them lived felons, peso-pushers, and a variety of malcontents intent on mandrake visions. (Banish me! before I speak again—before I make sense!)

To make scents: I smell a distinct artistic foul and the accomplishment of nothing (in spades!) emergent from a peroration of desperation . . . Waiter! Check please!

Apostolic apostrophes for after-dinner drinkage / Oblations about the legibility of affective labor in the birthing rooms. Here are the assessments of the granulations upon the spindle-bearer’s back / Ablutions and absolutions of contortionist social prodigies bearing their brands as sexual appendages.

What! I say: What! are we doing here? I ain’t nobody’s blank slate.

What I’m Reading:

I closed the huge doors behind me and walked softly towards the altar. I was in the opium of the people. The huge cross dangled from chains fixed to the roof. I stood looking at the crucified Christ. He looked like He needed a stiff drink . . . He looked like I felt.

— Dambudzo Marechera / Black Sunlight

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in this (my) neighborhood pt. 55

What I’m Reading:

. . . for in Mumbai, as in Miami and many other coastal cities, these are often the very areas in which expensive new construction projects are located. Property values would almost certainly decline if residents were to be warned of possible risks which is why builders and developers are sure to resist efforts to disseminate disaster-related information.

— Amitav Ghosh / The Great Derangement

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shrapnel into rain

The Best Stuff I Read This Week

California banned slavery in 1849. California law allowed
Native people to be enslaved in 1910.

— Allison Adelle Hedge Coke / Look at This Blue


. . . I have been haunted by the human capacity to use creativity and imagination to such deadly ends. I would like to think that we are better off in the United States, but when you look at what was done in Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo Bay, we are only wealthy enough to keep it offshore. In the United States, we have the money to create weaponry that removes us from the violence we enact. By contrast, in the Congo, the mixture of poverty and war is a lethal combination. Due to a lack of money, the human body becomes the weapon, the teenage boy the terror, and a woman’s womb “the battleground.”

— Kate Whoriskey / “Introduction” to Lynn Nottage’s Ruined


O god of guayaba’s split red belly
O god of  the soldier taking your wedding ring
O god of young cursing teeth
O god of  the baseball stadium where,
in 1966, a soldier stood on third base
and sent hundreds of men to work
the sugarcane fields.

— Jordan Pérez / “O God of Cuba”


CHRISTIAN: But we have to pretend that all this ugliness means nothing. We wash the blood off with buckets of frigid water, and whitewash our walls. Our leaders tell us: “Follow my rules, your life will be better,” their doctors say, “Take this pill, your life will be better,” “Plant these seeds, your life will better,” “Read this book, your life will be better,” “Kill your neighbor, your life will be better—“

— Lynn Nottage / Ruined


If every bomb
Appeared in the sky a dove
Shrapnel into rain

If vengeance vanquished
From the cursed lips of weak men
An idea never taking root

— Tony Medina / “Seven Steps to Heaven Haiku”


“White” was invented five hundred years ago to describe the privilege enjoyed by one group of people, and to justify the exploitation of “Black” people. In the words of James Baldwin, “White is a metaphor for power.” And today, it remains both an assertion of racial superiority and a declaration of a twisted notion of freedom. To be white is to have entered a world free of the pain of history, an abstract space where opportunity and individualism rule. The racial and ethnic labels of the United States are old and imprecise and illogical; and yet they dominate our lives in the present.

— Hector Tobar / Our Migrant Souls


We don’t have to be rapacious. That is not who we necessarily are. We have built an economy that is relentless in its consumption and does not conform to natural law, but we don’t have to do it that way.

— Robin Wall-Kimmerer, to Andrew Boyd / I Want a Better Catastrophe: Navigating the Climate Crisis with Grief, Hope, and Gallows Humor

What I’m Listening To:

Bright every day, I wake up
Look at my travels, they’re scuffed up
Ring goes the telly, which I pick up
Turn on the news as it screws up

— De La Soul / “Freedom of Speak (We Got Three Minutes)”

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