The unexpected postcard

I haven’t had enough
Can’t ask me to say when
Can’t ask me to resist
Won’t come my way again

It’s not that I am helpless
Nor that I am compelled
But that I have no words for
A way I’ve never felt

a long guitar and harmonica talking instrumental break

When you feel like you’re past hope
Past any chance for redemption
Perhaps some satisfaction
That life would get my vote
Then love comes into view
Like an unexpected postcard
Saying everything is beautiful
And soon you will be home.

fiddle on the last four lines, harmonica drops out

yes this is a destiel filk, tune exceeding dangerously sappy C&W, and it’s going along with the fic I’m working on. I am so cheesed with myself; I don’t want to leave the house, and there’s been a letter to pOp sitting there on the kitchen table for the last day. Also I’m supposed to make like lady bountiful to Paul, holed up in his motel. Tea, and beans, and whatnot.

anticolonial song (four part harmony AT LEAST)

I want to take Lord Stanley down
with a homemade thermal lance
he had his mo’, but he’s got to go
we can’t leave it to chance
Oxy – steel wool – brake line – tubing
Now I’m waiting for the spark
& you will see that statue fall
a mile off in the dark

 

If you go to youtube, the single most dangerous (but cost effective, big thumbs up!) Do It Yourself thermal lance in history is there to be viewe with awe

 

Inspirational!

listening to Oumou Sangaré on Spotify

the album is called Seya

Kept Buster in overnight, let him out at 4:30.

Trying to think what else to do today besides go for a walk with Paul.

I have a lot of swirling thoughts in my head

Once upon a time
there was a staple gun
it mostly was for work
but sometimes was for fun
when there were bills to post
and scores to settle
we could do it all
with little chunks of metal

Picture the tune for this as something like a fifties pablum ballad

Poem July 18 2020 “Winners”

The eavesdrip of his wrath is death,
and daily death, and unlike the last, best
holocaust, it flails like laundry under
global scrutiny.

Where science and civics are firm friends,
survivability blooms; then dies in a bucket
overwatered
by arrogance and greed and sloth
seen as shadows on a screen
eating the burning bones of the end of the world.

Into my housebound day, a short walk.
I’m wearing a mask, because I’m
contagious
daily.
Human contact doesn’t happen.
The gap is observed.
We make two circuits of the local schoolyard
and sit it in the shade.
I nag him.
I don’t fully grasp the semblably saurian
reflex of it, a chicken pecking,
even I can see it, and I do it anyway.

This crisis won’t be dead until we are
and we won’t die as winners.

poem- stop and start

find feeling and follow
the words, a parallel furrow
dug into the body
not to wound but to attest
that this event has meaning
drawn beyond the geophysics
marks my marrow
||interpret these lines||

poems about motherhood
and hardly any about
how it is an alien occupation
shifting tissue into your brain

yes, truly, I am centred in my frame

/mark these deletions
they are where I was brute
and woman
no one wants it/

trust the body
connect this breath to that word
and make that spider thread
a braid of wonder

poem ‘phone call’

A video call is too hard

I don’t have what it takes to manage it
and his laptop’s never booted up
work has eaten every moment

my outgoing text: Call me when
you have the opportunity and energy

I reach out with

this

ping

of

intent,

better to do this

than

not

Finally, as the depression grinds through its portion
of his brain, and barfs up his attention span, he calls back
and I say I don’t judge you for making me wait

it’s like crossing the road in wild traffic
you must wait for your moment and dash

will the world
still be there
when the scramble for now is over

poem ‘the open tap’

fantastical lights from faraway places
retain their moment in time and I mine
settling myself into the gendered slurry
that is English

those lights
candles for my bath
as I stub the life from this lepisma saccharina

here’s a snapshot
it will be six months later
during a pandemic
when I finally stir myself
to clean up its corpse

grey in life, grey in death
almost indistinguishable from the grout

I can’t write today, I can’t
I’m a mote, should be mute, a little scrotey
blemish on the terrifying backside of English letters
all jealousy, a tunnel through inadequacy
reaching up through all this debris
for a garden of kindness
a shield against the noise

instead
a mask

over the top of my face
years ago I got the plague mask
years ago

and on the bottom of my face
a white rectangle, broken into diamonds
a fabric diamond on my face
I never had one for my hand
I am a metagraph of ‘something into something else’

my mind and my DNA

once I had a face and now
because I love you
I do not

Ich hatt’ einen Kameraden

in that moment when your comrade falls

all the world is out of sequence

each space is subdivided into noise

fear and cruelty

crumpled parchment

stuffed into a crack

is every line of scripture

how could there be recovery from this

then another falls

we left behind will stiffen, shoulder loads

agree that we are soldiers

or at least survivors

there is a task that lies ahead

perhaps to drown in blood

with hands blown off

which is what it feels like

when another one falls

i am neither these lines

nor this war

this entire earth a cry of sorrow

for the things you will not see

my fallen comrade

For a friend (from 80s)

REDUCTIO AD ABSURDAM

Until it happens to you
ventures close to your life
the flash of the scalpel
is entertainment
you do not see the cost of survival.

shall I make jokes
call her an Amazon now
a soldier sworn to a particular battle?

shall I mourn because my friend
has been reduced
by her breast
by her hair?

the next time she sees me
none of this will show
I am a civilized person
given to mourning in private.