tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90133833409276508942024-02-07T06:16:14.584-08:00Top Left PocketWriting, Music, & PoliticsPeter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-10692071516756615582011-11-22T15:43:00.001-08:002011-11-22T15:43:31.006-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-44507593048778948612011-10-27T14:29:00.000-07:002011-10-27T14:37:42.972-07:00Bucket BrigadeThis is my contribution to the OWS protests.<br />
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Bucket Brigade<br />
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<br />Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-75687854078354243962011-09-11T08:15:00.000-07:002011-09-11T09:25:53.218-07:00September 11, 2011Ten years ago I was in graduate school working on a long forgotten poem at home when my wife called and alerted me to the morning's events. When I turned on the TV & checked the news online, I quickly realized the enormity of the tragedy. My oldest daughter, who was 1 at the time, had just begun day care in the Federal Courthouse in Boston so I could go back to school. Because of the Oklahoma City bombing everyone had to be evacuated from all federal buildings. My wife, who was pregnant at the time with our second daughter, ran to the courthouse from her office, grabbed our daughter, & drove as fast as she could home.<br />
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There has been much written in the last 10 years about that beautiful late-summer morning and we all have our own saturation levels to contend with. I, for one, greatly appreciated the focus and attention that poetry received at the time as a way to deal with craziness of it all. Suddenly people were talking about poetry as something that matters. Something important.<br />
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There have been many good poems written in response to the events of Sept 11th; you can use the google-machine to find the one's you like best. This is one of my favorites, by Bob Hicok. <br />
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Full Flight<br />
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I'm in a plane that will not be flown into a building.<br />
It's a SAAB 340, seats 40, has two engines with propellers<br />
is why I think of beanies, those hats that would spin<br />
a young head into the clouds. The plane is red and loud<br />
inside like it must be loud in the heart, red like fire<br />
and fire engines and the woman two seats up and to the right<br />
resembles one of the widows I saw on TV after the Towers<br />
came down. It's her hair that I recognize, the fecundity of it<br />
and the color and its obedience to an ideal, the shape<br />
it was asked several hours ago to hold and has held, a kind<br />
of wave that begins at the forehead and repeats with slight<br />
variations all the way to the tips, as if she were water<br />
and a pebble had been continuously dropped into the mouth<br />
of her existence. We are eighteen thousand feet over America.<br />
People are typing at their laps, blowing across the fog of coffee,<br />
sleeping with their heads on the windows, on the pattern<br />
of green fields and brown fields, streams and gas stations<br />
and swimming pools, blue dots of aquamarine that suggest<br />
we've domesticated the mirage. We had to kill someone,<br />
I believe, when the metal bones burned and the top<br />
fell through the bottom and a cloud made of dust and memos<br />
and skin muscled across Manhattan. I remember feeling<br />
I could finally touch a rifle, that some murders<br />
are an illumination of ethics, that they act as a word,<br />
a motion the brain requires for which there is<br />
no syllable, no breath. The moment the planes had stopped,<br />
when we were afraid of the sky, there was a pause<br />
when we could have been perfectly American,<br />
could have spent infinity dollars and thrown a million<br />
bodies at finding the few, lasering our revenge<br />
into a kind of love, the blood-hunger kept exact<br />
and more convincing for its precision, an expression<br />
of our belief that proximity is never the measure of guilt.<br />
We've lived in the sky again for some years and today<br />
on my lap these pictures from Iraq, naked bodies<br />
stacked into a pyramid of ha-ha and the articles<br />
about broomsticks up the ass and the limbs of children<br />
turned into stubble, we are punch-drunk and getting even<br />
with the sand, with the map, with oil, with ourselves<br />
I think listening to the guys behind me. There's a problem<br />
in Alpena with an inventory control system, some switches<br />
are being counted twice, switches for what I don't know—<br />
switches of humor, of faith—but the men are musical<br />
in their jargon, both likely born in New Delhi<br />
and probably Americans now, which is what the flesh<br />
of this country has been, a grafted pulse, an inventory<br />
of the world, and just as the idea of embrace<br />
moves chemically into my blood, and I'm warmed<br />
as if I've just taken a drink, a voice announces<br />
we've begun our descent, and then I sense the falling. <br />
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<br />Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-57182980662472685092011-08-29T09:21:00.000-07:002011-08-29T09:21:47.182-07:00After the StormI've been reading C.K. Williams's <i>Repair</i> and came across this poem. After Hurricane Irene has come and gone it struck a chord with me. I hope you enjoy it, too.<br />
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<b>Droplets</b>
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Even when the rain falls relatively hard,<br />
only one leaf at a time of the little tree<br />
you planted on the balcony last year,<br />
then another leaf at its time, and one more,<br />
is set trembling by the constant droplets,<br /><br />
but the rain, the clouds flocked over the city,<br />
you at the piano inside, your hesitant music<br />
mingling with the din of the downpour,<br />
the gush of rivulets loosed from the eaves,<br />
the iron railings and flowing gutters,<br /><br />
all of it fuses in me with such intensity<br />
that I can't help wondering why my longing<br />
to live forever has so abated that it hardly<br />
comes to me anymore, and never as it did,<br />
as regret for what I might not live to live,<br /><br />
but rather as a layering of instants like this,<br />
transient as the mist drawn from the rooftops,<br />
yet emphatic as any note of the nocturne<br />
you practice, and, the storm faltering, fading<br />
into its own radiant passing, you practice again. <br />
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Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-65199178328104787092011-08-28T10:56:00.000-07:002011-08-28T10:56:44.784-07:00Gillian WelchI saw Gillian Welch last night at the Haw River Ballroom in Saxapahaw. She was supposed to perform in Wilmington but due to Hurricane Irene the show was rescheduled to Saxapahaw. Thank you Irene! What a phenomenal show! If you ever get the opportunity to see Ms Welch & Mr Rawlings play by all means do so.<br />
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They played this song last night & it has always been one of my favorites. Always reminds me of a good friend of mine when back in the day we used to go out dancing just about every night. Loved dancing with my friend, Dave, & it makes sad / happy whenever I hear this song.<br />
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<i>Elv</i>is<i> Presley Blues </i>from the <i>Time (The Revelator) </i>album, 2001<br />
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<br />Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-20941466950083922842011-08-18T13:44:00.000-07:002011-08-18T13:44:34.193-07:00Big money funding school resegregation in Wake County NCThe Republican party really wants to takes us back, back into the dark ages. These attempts to end public education are taking place not too far from here. People need to wake up and understand how extreme these Republicans are. And vote the bastards out in the next election.<br />
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To read more about this issue you can read about it here: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/08/14/the-battle-for-wake-count_n_926799.html <br />
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Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-817207869278669792011-08-16T13:33:00.000-07:002011-08-16T13:33:55.444-07:00The new poet laureateHere's a poem by the new poet laureate, Philip Levine. Enjoy!<br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: 20px;"><b>M. Degas Teaches Art & Science At Durfee Intermediate School--Detroit, 1942 </b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: 20px;"></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;">He made a line on the blackboard,<br />one bold stroke from right to left<br />diagonally downward and stood back<br />to ask, looking as always at no one<br />in particular, "What have I done?"<br />From the back of the room Freddie<br />shouted, "You've broken a piece<br />of chalk." M. Degas did not smile.<br />"What have I done?" he repeated.<br />The most intellectual students<br />looked down to study their desks<br />except for Gertrude Bimmler, who raised<br />her hand before she spoke. "M. Degas,<br />you have created the hypotenuse<br />of an isosceles triangle." Degas mused. <br />Everyone knew that Gertrude could not<br />be incorrect. "It is possible,"<br />Louis Warshowsky added precisely,<br />"that you have begun to represent<br />the roof of a barn." I remember<br />that it was exactly twenty minutes<br />past eleven, and I thought at worst<br />this would go on another forty<br />minutes. It was early April,<br />the snow had all but melted on<br />the playgrounds, the elms and maples<br />bordering the cracked walks shivered<br />in the new winds, and I believed<br />that before I knew it I'd be<br />swaggering to the candy store<br />for a Milky Way. M. Degas<br />pursed his lips, and the room<br />stilled until the long hand<br />of the clock moved to twenty one<br />as though in complicity with Gertrude,<br />who added confidently, "You've begun<br />to separate the dark from the dark."<br />I looked back for help, but now<br />the trees bucked and quaked, </span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;">and Iknew this could go on forever.
</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: 20px;"><b> </b></span><br />
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Philip Levine<br />
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You can hear Mr. Levine read the poem here: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15940 <br />
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<br />Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-2134828404088212132011-08-15T10:16:00.000-07:002011-08-15T10:16:03.613-07:00Stan BrakhageStan Brakhage, was an American non-narrative filmmaker who is considered to be one of the most important figures in 20th century experimental film<a href="https://secure.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/wiki/Experimental_film" title="Experimental film"></a>.<br />
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The Dante Quartet is an experimental short film completed in 1987. The film was inspired by Dante's <i>The Divine Comedy</i>, and took six years to produce.<br />
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<i>The Dante Quartet</i> is divided into four parts, titled <i>Hell Itself</i>, <i>Hell Spit Flexion</i>, <i>Purgation</i> and <i>existence is song,</i> respectively.<sup class="reference" id="cite_ref-James_5-0"><a href="https://secure.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/wiki/The_Dante_Quartet#cite_note-James-5"><span></span><span></span></a></sup> Brakhage described the sections as follows:<br />
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I made <i>Hell Itself</i> during the breakup with Jane [Brakhage] and
the collapse of my whole life, so I got to know quite well the
streaming of the hypnagogic that’s hellish. Now the body can not only
feed back its sense of being in hell but also its getting out of hell,
and <i>Hell Spit Flexion</i> shows the way out – it’s there as crowbar
to life one out of hell toward the transformatory state – purgatory. And
finally there’s a fourth state that’s fleeting. I’ve called the last
part <i>existence is song</i> quoting Rilke<a href="https://secure.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/wiki/Rainer_Maria_Rilke" title="Rainer Maria Rilke"></a>, <sup class="reference" id="cite_ref-6"><a href="https://secure.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/wiki/The_Dante_Quartet#cite_note-6"><span></span><span></span></a></sup>because I don’t want to presume upon the after-life and call it “Heaven."<br />
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<br />Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-12680491275347819352011-08-09T10:48:00.000-07:002011-08-09T10:48:52.790-07:00Bill KnottBill Knott was one of my professors at Emerson College where I earned an MFA in poetry. Knott is the author of ten books of poetry, including his landmark first collection <cite>The Naomi Poems</cite> (Follett, 1968), <cite>Outremer</cite>, which won the Iowa Poetry Prize in 1988, and most recently <cite>The Unsubscriber</cite> (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2004). He received a Guggenheim Fellowship in 2003. He could scare the bejusus out of the unitiated, but Knott knows his stuff and has to be admired for his tenacity in doing it his own way.<br />
Knott has self-published collections of his work, which are available for free through his website:<br />
http://billknottpoetry.blogspot.com/<br />
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Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-81553582608571100052011-08-05T08:19:00.000-07:002011-08-05T08:19:38.149-07:00Balkan BrassI've spent the past couple of hours listening to Balkan brass bands and nearly catapulting myself through the roof in the process. Love the seismic energy of these sounds! Hope you enjoy it too. This is the Fanfara Transilvania Balkan Brass Band:<br />
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<br />Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-12773152036661704642011-08-04T12:15:00.000-07:002011-08-04T13:36:26.405-07:00August 4thI saw my first Great Blue Heron of the summer this morning. What a treat! I remember seeing them last year around this time. It must be part of their migration pattern. Happy to have them back in hood. They are truly magnificent creatures! I've also been seeing more of the Red-shouldered Hawks. One flew about 5 feet over my head a few weeks back. What a fierce looking bird. And of course the Barred Owls are seemingly always around. Just the sound of them calling out to each other is enough to soothe the soul. Love my tree house in the forest and all its wondrous inhabitants!<br />
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<br />Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-46333109104996208782011-07-31T14:29:00.000-07:002011-07-31T14:29:45.513-07:00Don't Stop the CarnivalGreat clip of Harry Belafonte<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/FDDEGBv8Hgc?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<br />Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-9696400168853874682011-06-02T06:25:00.000-07:002011-06-02T06:25:46.646-07:00Jim White - "Borrowed Wings"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><object width="320" height="266" class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://2.gvt0.com/vi/Uw_XduqUIcI/0.jpg"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Uw_XduqUIcI&fs=1&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Uw_XduqUIcI&fs=1&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object></div>Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-35716516760735643942011-05-25T06:23:00.000-07:002011-05-25T06:23:32.327-07:00Four TetI just began my morning listening to Four Tet aka Kieran Hebded. This is a nice sample of his work.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/6dbpEt4O0VY?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-39659330067011931002011-04-30T09:05:00.000-07:002011-04-30T09:05:45.679-07:00Four Seasons Production 21 Video PoemsOne of my favorite Neruda poems<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/rdzOrJ68-3w?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-31759538447691393692011-04-16T09:54:00.000-07:002011-04-16T09:54:39.242-07:00Bolin Creek friendsI've been meeting a lot more of my neighbors now that it's springtime. Here are a few of them...<br />
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Copperhead<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikboD9DhiRf_FMwXQwchQ1ghgFgSg30Cc2CTVj2MCcRQC-0HQRNbN2EpliLLpDqeWvKRUrmGLSIyWNwTBEbvYxikWp29KtMNKlJeyaxdikICcrJRxEBhtcKuMVsZkfJWkuMNB1akTvNMFh/s1600/Snake+-+1734.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikboD9DhiRf_FMwXQwchQ1ghgFgSg30Cc2CTVj2MCcRQC-0HQRNbN2EpliLLpDqeWvKRUrmGLSIyWNwTBEbvYxikWp29KtMNKlJeyaxdikICcrJRxEBhtcKuMVsZkfJWkuMNB1akTvNMFh/s320/Snake+-+1734.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Barred Owl<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl-7ExVjGFn-KJ3r1QViAkoE4tihFXLP6ZVo8s7rSE8TmNwKpGK8IANCyuWWhuKZwmd4tBs42et59zDhIulRQlo1_M9TFYRLMISx52tW0r2xMZ5_s4ES-6Z_iXHbJ-VBK_Jl8UKv8GjTpB/s1600/Owl+-+1555.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl-7ExVjGFn-KJ3r1QViAkoE4tihFXLP6ZVo8s7rSE8TmNwKpGK8IANCyuWWhuKZwmd4tBs42et59zDhIulRQlo1_M9TFYRLMISx52tW0r2xMZ5_s4ES-6Z_iXHbJ-VBK_Jl8UKv8GjTpB/s320/Owl+-+1555.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Kingsnake (?)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKY6TVw-TjQIPnaC2HRgmTEHPMO9sAXxhLBKxF2PYmp_t2eego8S9RuQ3y_BCsIsjz-UvRRUOzKmUKtl4lPl1EqDSIqckiyaN6-rQfSEHe3cLWrfFzq6nkgxg8xG0O52hmd3uDHOfMXhxt/s1600/Snake+-+1404.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKY6TVw-TjQIPnaC2HRgmTEHPMO9sAXxhLBKxF2PYmp_t2eego8S9RuQ3y_BCsIsjz-UvRRUOzKmUKtl4lPl1EqDSIqckiyaN6-rQfSEHe3cLWrfFzq6nkgxg8xG0O52hmd3uDHOfMXhxt/s320/Snake+-+1404.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-28327020017348041822011-04-02T13:19:00.000-07:002011-04-02T13:19:10.974-07:00Spring<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizS1TKIukSenkiuI9VM18bxSgdnagvomxJiO27WADXWQPacOqiQScGjfi15h_xFEBIGVGc89QXcEPvhJ6Pzx6NbDFhlxxMlP6q-6ynUV2BtTPey8o-F8wm6mpeidXh_OPmeEUfQpGSE8jO/s1600/01+-+Leaves+in+Creek+-+1457.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizS1TKIukSenkiuI9VM18bxSgdnagvomxJiO27WADXWQPacOqiQScGjfi15h_xFEBIGVGc89QXcEPvhJ6Pzx6NbDFhlxxMlP6q-6ynUV2BtTPey8o-F8wm6mpeidXh_OPmeEUfQpGSE8jO/s320/01+-+Leaves+in+Creek+-+1457.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcU9VPMN9I3DbhvBjDv3grd8q-Hw2lzowGHYyBF8JQEeCc2Ypyb3IH0eFEblgBw9MmRDc8t0VhIxe8ZgAX8xSLkfDcY7gdvBTOEhPWQAxR6Om98anGYZMoIRHsGve7P6O5mRa-e6dCTXuz/s1600/02+-+Flowers+with+Rock+-+1426.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcU9VPMN9I3DbhvBjDv3grd8q-Hw2lzowGHYyBF8JQEeCc2Ypyb3IH0eFEblgBw9MmRDc8t0VhIxe8ZgAX8xSLkfDcY7gdvBTOEhPWQAxR6Om98anGYZMoIRHsGve7P6O5mRa-e6dCTXuz/s320/02+-+Flowers+with+Rock+-+1426.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhURAS6LVzow4vzyFjzQJHIt21kx3RYWjS-2RGU2Vs4JqjUFrgZFeoqpVSI1T7GBms4WTwivlDi_OHdDhvEaH1m9tT4hjzo_8SkSyU3mJ4AVdhNFeEmBj-doPgE-J_hT0-aPW8lsXL9agLs/s1600/03+-+Leaf+Muck+in+Creek+Bi-color-1457.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhURAS6LVzow4vzyFjzQJHIt21kx3RYWjS-2RGU2Vs4JqjUFrgZFeoqpVSI1T7GBms4WTwivlDi_OHdDhvEaH1m9tT4hjzo_8SkSyU3mJ4AVdhNFeEmBj-doPgE-J_hT0-aPW8lsXL9agLs/s320/03+-+Leaf+Muck+in+Creek+Bi-color-1457.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>After a wet & unseasonable cold week it finally feels like spring again down here. Just in time for the last few days of spring break. Whoo hoo!<br />
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Here's a fine spring poem by Louise Glück <br />
<h2>The Silver Lily</h2><div class="author"><br />
</div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">The nights have grown cool again, like the nights </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">of early spring, and quiet again. Will </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">speech disturb you? We're </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">alone now; we have no reason for silence. </div><br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Can you see, over the garden—the full moon rises. </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">I won't see the next full moon. </div><br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">In spring, when the moon rose, it meant </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">time was endless. Snowdrops </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">opened and closed, the clustered </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">seeds of the maples fell in pale drifts. </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">White over white, the moon rose over the birch tree. </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">And in the crook, where the tree divides, </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">leaves of the first daffodils, in moonlight </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">soft greenish-silver. </div><br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">We have come too far together toward the end now </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">to fear the end. These nights, I am no longer even certain </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">I know what the end means. And you, who've been with a man— </div><br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">after the first cries, </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">doesn't joy, like fear, make no sound?</div>Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-52563830043574046742011-03-28T14:07:00.000-07:002011-03-28T14:07:52.436-07:00HymnalBecause atheists need songs too.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/UMWUwgAk49k?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-87629822023812092132011-03-27T11:22:00.000-07:002011-03-27T11:22:25.150-07:00The haves vs the have notsHoping President Obama & the Democrats can find it within themselves to come out more forcefully in favor of the middle class, the working class, & the Unions. The haves have been redistributing income upward for the last 30 years. It's time to fight back. I know which side I'm on.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/P8fCQ-Dctm8?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-20538706090782380142011-03-25T07:58:00.000-07:002011-03-25T07:58:11.553-07:00Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire 100 year anniversaryToday is the 100th anniversary of Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire. In a time when there were no unions or worker's rights. This seems particularly relevant today in light of all the Republican Governors' attempts at union busting and knocking down any hopes of a sustainable middle class in this country. It's class war, people, and the rich are winning right now.<br />
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Read more about the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Triangle_Shirtwaist_Factory_fire <br />
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This is a fantastic Robert Pinsky poem about The Great Fire from the perspective of a middle class man inspecting his own shirt.<br />
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<h2>Shirt</h2><div class="author">by Robert Pinsky </div><div class="author"><br />
</div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">The back, the yoke, the yardage. Lapped seams, </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">The nearly invisible stitches along the collar </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Turned in a sweatshop by Koreans or Malaysians </div><br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Gossiping over tea and noodles on their break </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Or talking money or politics while one fitted </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">This armpiece with its overseam to the band </div><br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Of cuff I button at my wrist. The presser, the cutter, </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">The wringer, the mangle. The needle, the union, </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">The treadle, the bobbin. The code. The infamous blaze </div><br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven. </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">One hundred and forty-six died in the flames </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes— </div><br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">The witness in a building across the street </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Who watched how a young man helped a girl to step </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Up to the windowsill, then held her out </div><br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Away from the masonry wall and let her drop. </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">And then another. As if he were helping them up </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">To enter a streetcar, and not eternity. </div><br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">A third before he dropped her put her arms </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Around his neck and kissed him. Then he held </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Her into space, and dropped her. Almost at once </div><br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">He stepped to the sill himself, his jacket flared </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">And fluttered up from his shirt as he came down, </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Air filling up the legs of his gray trousers— </div><br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Like Hart Crane’s Bedlamite, “shrill shirt ballooning.” </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Wonderful how the pattern matches perfectly </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Across the placket and over the twin bar-tacked </div><br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Or a major chord. Prints, plaids, checks, </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Houndstooth, Tattersall, Madras. The clan tartans </div><br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Invented by mill-owners inspired by the hoax of Ossian, </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">To control their savage Scottish workers, tamed </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">By a fabricated heraldry: MacGregor, </div><br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Bailey, MacMartin. The kilt, devised for workers </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">To wear among the dusty clattering looms. </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Weavers, carders, spinners. The loader, </div><br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">The docker, the navvy. The planter, the picker, the sorter </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Sweating at her machine in a litter of cotton </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">As slaves in calico headrags sweated in fields: </div><br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">George Herbert, your descendant is a Black </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Lady in South Carolina, her name is Irma </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">And she inspected my shirt. Its color and fit </div><br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">And feel and its clean smell have satisfied </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Both her and me. We have culled its cost and quality </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Down to the buttons of simulated bone, </div><br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">Printed in black on neckband and tail. The shape, </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">The label, the labor, the color, the shade. The shirt.</div>Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-64073789238277861712011-03-25T07:34:00.000-07:002011-03-25T07:34:58.534-07:00DaughterI went to New York last week and it threw this blog out of whack. Such a fantastic city. This coming week my daughters are home on Spring break. Which surely means more neglect for this. Yu(c)k is the softer version of the band Yuck. Like them both. The Young kids keeps on rockin'. As a father of two girls I enjoyed this one the most from Yu(c)k's EP.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/IEUGypp8f2Y?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-6748132251278075282011-02-03T06:43:00.000-08:002011-02-04T07:01:02.097-08:00Egypt<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSkuMfMtC-Zs1uvsV8EWJTFNlDSZQJdpBE-X0lJ63_UghTE20C-W-NrCSbY-CIQJ6NfU8sVeNvV0jXnuE4ewbRaCtQqDlh-vyg1FGniOHoSOMHTmD-5_-MHFprsjgnmsl2PjftvxRpxi1h/s1600/APTOPIX_Egypt_Protest.sff.slideshow_main.prod_affiliate.80.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSkuMfMtC-Zs1uvsV8EWJTFNlDSZQJdpBE-X0lJ63_UghTE20C-W-NrCSbY-CIQJ6NfU8sVeNvV0jXnuE4ewbRaCtQqDlh-vyg1FGniOHoSOMHTmD-5_-MHFprsjgnmsl2PjftvxRpxi1h/s320/APTOPIX_Egypt_Protest.sff.slideshow_main.prod_affiliate.80.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVOdlksvhLSE3YCib4hTOtCvrPVN4uUsrORPmCM4yg3V7XiX1VRNUbCh7ucgwUuqsSdFNAawiQCXWJoHZv6iKPS047zYM3Rale3OiDNVPqU0YzuB2GSpFy5xWsmGE_uwgeah6bsX3N7LSF/s1600/girl-sign-LG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVOdlksvhLSE3YCib4hTOtCvrPVN4uUsrORPmCM4yg3V7XiX1VRNUbCh7ucgwUuqsSdFNAawiQCXWJoHZv6iKPS047zYM3Rale3OiDNVPqU0YzuB2GSpFy5xWsmGE_uwgeah6bsX3N7LSF/s320/girl-sign-LG.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>We stand in solidarity with the Egyptian people! <span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="ar"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">نقف</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">تضامنا</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">مع</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">الشعب المصري </span></span>Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-4170554176763226552011-01-30T10:55:00.000-08:002011-06-02T09:09:16.070-07:00Flux DensityThis poem was originally published in The Watermark <br />
<br />
FLUX DENSITY<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
With different rules, under a new order,<br />
the slant may tilt at an alternative angle,<br />
the floor could become the ceiling,<br />
creating a whole new set of circumstances.<br />
Try imagining for a minute your life then.<br />
Nuances, while not so subtle,<br />
could save your life.<br />
Then again, the very thing that wants<br />
so badly to turn everything upside down<br />
may very well be the inverted idea<br />
of an idea already standing on its head.<br />
<br />
And yet, with another set of rules,<br />
the order could slant towards other,<br />
more fantastic angles, where the weight <br />
of change may grow too troublesome to bear.<br />
And so, in order not to be crushed<br />
by the process, another change <br />
becomes necessary, leaving things<br />
as they are, in a permanent state of flux.<br />
<br />
©Peter BirckheadPeter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-55020441022909092652011-01-28T10:36:00.000-08:002011-01-28T10:42:48.102-08:00According To Thomas Cook<span id="internal-source-marker_0.9264884470277177" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">ACCORDING TO THOMAS COOK</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">the bullet train leaves before you're ready.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It hauls everything people say you need.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The rest of your life's going back: circular</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">notes & fees exchanged from barred windows,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">scrawl scratched onto old boxcars, half-remembered</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">conversations in-between destinations.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">At the station the lines are moving fast and slow.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Gentlemen in bow ties & mustachios are collecting tickets.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Try leaving ahead of time or showing up late.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The excursion's just the same.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">With all the whacks and thwacks</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">that correspond with consciousness, just say </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">whoopee to that dog and pony show.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The bullet train arrives before you're ready.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It will wait for you the rest of your life.</span>Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9013383340927650894.post-85850031595411309322011-01-27T06:16:00.000-08:002011-01-27T06:16:24.584-08:00RequiemThis poem was published in the Beacon Street Review in the fall of 1999.<br />
<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">REQUIEM FOR BLUE FEATHERS</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’m not even trying,” Azalea said, as she zeroed in on the target.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Everyone was either limping or crawling </div><div class="MsoNormal">through the last five miles of the day.<span> </span>Our mouths were dry</div><div class="MsoNormal">with the dust of past generations.<span> </span>Dreams had been kicked</div><div class="MsoNormal">and scrambled into oblique forms against the red roofs</div><div class="MsoNormal">of our town.<span> </span>Oceans were being drained</div><div class="MsoNormal">to re-fill the old vat of marketable rebellion.</div><div class="MsoNormal">There was no separation between the senses.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Too many outfits,” someone else said, </div><div class="MsoNormal">as Azalea lifted off the ground in her blue swan feathers. </div><div class="MsoNormal">The dark November wind had settled her breathing </div><div class="MsoNormal">back into fire.<span> </span>We took bets to see which alley she’d turn up in.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I couldn’t decide whether to turn away from the view or be sick </div><div class="MsoNormal">in my socks.<span> </span>It was getting colder and all the tattooed </div><div class="MsoNormal">lovers were selling their stocks to keep their place </div><div class="MsoNormal">in line before she crashed.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s a world economy now,” I said, burying my father’s</div><div class="MsoNormal">hospital bills in the backyard.<span> </span>Every hour was sponsored</div><div class="MsoNormal">by Microsoft or Mobil.<span> </span>We wore sandwich boards to work </div><div class="MsoNormal">to ward off the inquisitors: “I am not a socialist.”<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">Meanwhile, I dreamed of Azalea’s blue flight </div><div class="MsoNormal">as the last editions of independent thought </div><div class="MsoNormal">caught between my teeth like raw meat.<span> </span>For now, </div><div class="MsoNormal">we wake to the lovesick strains of mediocrity </div><div class="MsoNormal">rubbing its dreary wings together.<span> </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>Peter Birckheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10352242518562691174noreply@blogger.com0