Archives for September 2014

Alphonse is kid’s [heavy metal music] stuff.

Look, I’m absolutely not suggesting that anyone should Google the covers of Dynamite Abortion’s Uterosacral Slamputation, Necrocest’s Prenatal Massacre, Impaled’s Choice Cuts, Raped By Pigs’ Squealing to the New World, or Vulvectomy’s Post-Abortion Sl…oh never mind. I’m just noting that when you peruse the collections of “goriest album covers” assembled by the Internet, you do tend to see abortion-related imagery.

Alphonse is kid’s [video game] stuff.

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Why yes, that is a wailing fetus-thingy in the playable teaser for the Guillermo del Toro-Hideo Kojima collaboration Silent Hills. Why do you ask?

Brushed Mohair Boyfriend Sweatshirt

brush jpg

 

Upstate, a weekend away from college,
Your roommate’s sister joined our coterie –
What boys define as men. With foliage
For fashion, the sunlight fading early
Became her figure’s fugue – so perfect, picturesque
In autumn, earthy, delicately picaresque.

The camera, tomorrow says, can’t lie:
About her marble skin, her hair a nest
Of robin’s wings – her emerald eyes rely
Upon arresting candor, prepossessed
As bees that flirt with failing thorn and dying rose –
But stuck in time, she strikes an adolescent pose.

Each minute, yesterday replies, construes
The truth of lies and strips from silks to flesh
What Madison Ave. only rues
But cannot refute. Context’s textile mesh
Imbeds in memory the silken worm of love,
But head cajoled the heart – till both could not believe

The evening air, so sharp and tang with leaves
In burning piles somewhere beyond the light
Of bonfires. Flame’s dancing logic still gives
Her face the look of truth while smoke and night
Still infiltrate her sweater’s cabled virgin wool:
It’s cold. She shivers, holds her hands in twilit fall –

And suddenly she looked at you across
The flame. You’d nursed your whisky flask to death;
Your eyes surmount their diffidence and toss
A glance her way. October steals your breath –
But dropping hands, she lets her eyes return to earth.
You wonder now what mocking god had given birth

To time and seasons. Heading back to school,
You thought about what could have been. You saw
Her once again – a final time – the cool
Of autumn giving way to winter’s raw
Emotion. Bundled up, she walked the whitened quad,
Her eyes as green as ever. Wink had passed by nod,

Your mute and shared admission fall occurred
At all. You turned to watch her slip away
Through snow that fell across the campus, blurred
Her lines, and failed to capture or portray
What, later, flying colors testified with lens
And film: that time and seasons hold no circumstance

With beauty’s rising smoke that, metal-blue,
Had veiled the milky spray of stars back then
When whiskey, fall and fire were all you knew –
Her fickle fame and fey adrenaline
Were waiting for the future, undeveloped prints
That cozened marketplace collateral. But since

That time, her rites of spring draw out modesty
In pencil skirts; her winter duffle makes
Its quilt-lined obsequies; her summers free
Bikini, brief and thong. But memory speaks
At last and turns the page to whiskey, fall and fire. You learn
For the first time: she’s autumn smoke, an ache, that burn

Of pure emotion, spilling now like ink
Across the colored capture, blotting out
The years, renewing face and form. To think
You knew her once so young. Without a doubt
Her eyes retain that fabled age of innocence –
What took J.Crew’s fall preview to experience.

Korrektiv Poetry Kontest, sponsored by J. Crew’s fall lineup

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Here, I’ll start:
If you have a Vintage Straight Boyfriend
With a broken-in slouch ’round his rear end
Buy these jeans, they won’t rip
They’re relaxed at the hip
So his butt he can tone with a knee bend.

Today in Stealth Marketing

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Today only: 20% off your purchase of $100 or more at Steve Madden Shoes

from the Hong Kong Transit Blotter

2006.04.27 23:00 Route #68X toward Yuen Long

More here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Bus_Uncle

Disapproving Dante looks down on me as I sip my Kentucky Buck at Polite Provisions

IMG_20140920_213843 Cheers, old mean. Man. I mean: Cheers, old man.

from the Seattle Transit Blotter

2014.09.20 17:35 Route #13 Third & Bell, Northbound

A couple in their mid to late 40s board the bus. Both are slender, fit, well dressed and in reasonably good spirits. Not at all down and out. He says, “for both of us,” and tries to feed a five dollar bill into the fare box, which the fare box refuses to accept.

Looking on, she says, “Must be one of them bills you got at a strip club!”

The bill is in fact the color of boiled spinach, a fairly sodden greenback that has lost any stiffness it once had, even as he pushes it forward.

“Yeah, right, when I was picking you up from work.”

“Phhh!” she says, rolling her eyes. “I wish!”

Paging Dr. Percy

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Anybody got a name for the experience of being in one very pleasant place away from home and seeing an image of another very pleasant place away from home that you have in fact visited? There’s a recognition and a thrill. I think maybe it helped also that it was a painting and not a photograph, but I can’t be sure, as I’d been celebrating at the time and this was in the loo.

Furniture Clearance Sale

These items won’t last long! Act now or spend the rest of your life fighting regret with booze, pills and cheap sex.

Here, here, and here.

Seattle Metro Bus Blotter 2014.9.18 2:25PM

Me, to a kid who just ran a block to catch my bus, “You know, if you pulled up your pants, you might be able to run a little faster.”

Kid, to me after he gets off the bus, “You know, if your mouth was a little bigger, you might be able to suck my dick.”

Oath and Abundance

visitationFor Elizabeth, on her birthday

Elisheba, young Aaron’s wife, saw
The scorching sun and torrid sand
On Israel’s treck avow no shadow
Nor soothe the azure sky – such land
Where all the colors drained from Eden
And drowns a rainbow’s hope for heaven…
The voided desert shades refuse,
In justice, spectrum’s seven hues.

Elizabeth, though, aging wife to
Old Zachariah, sits and rests
And waits to see her promised guests
Descend the everlasting hills now
From heaven’s blue – her mantled earth,
An advocate for mercy’s birth.

Cinematic Sacerdotes

Steven D. Greydanus is compiling a list of priest movies

HERE.

Thanks for doing our work for us, SDG!

Details from the Early Hours of Mara Naomi

mara house poem

It’s dawn. Awake? Yes, awake. And each time
I marvel at your timing – arbitrary
As cloud’s deconstruction – inchoate shape
To form, animal to goblin, toy to dream;
Certain as logic’s tumble-grind of gears;
Quiet as mountain air before a storm.
Half-awake I detect your ramble down the hall,
As capricious as a dancing dust mote
That climbs its way down a staircase of sunlight
Pouring in through a generous window.
You pad into our room on monkey feet.
Suddenly beside our bed, blooming, spring’s first,
You cling to dawn’s hour like autumn’s last leaf.
Your touching face that no one sees is set
Against the dying darkness, encouraging it
To other hemispheres now that you are here.
With chill air and flailing sheets, you announce
The world is not as you left it last night.
Then turn your head away, because, after all, [Read more…]

Revision of a revision

Y’all and Me

You, Webb, are a warm front
that moved in from the north (by way of California),
a blind spot bearing beautiful gifts; and
Quinn, you’re a garden in the air for sure,
Seattle Sub specie aeternitatis with tendrils dangling down.
Angelico, O.P., would you deny you are a golden L.A. filament
inscribed with the name of God’s hunting dog?
Southern Expat, ye be, unmistakably,
a magic Georgia heirloom mistaken for a Texas feather duster;
JOB, obviously: a fountain in a Wisconsin cow pasture
is what you are, spouting Wisconsin poetry constantly;
and Lickona the anachronistic anagram
annoyed by anonymity, the dollar in the pocket
of a New England winter coat in San Diego summer.

And me? I am the discoverer of y’all.

Apple Releases New U2 Album Pro Bono

“Apple says there’s going to be a new U2 album every day until you buy their stinking watch.”

More details here.

Flora and Fauna

flora fauna

The air is as still as deep water in a creek.
The sense of summer is regret for something spent.
As we walk along, silence is snapping quick
Beneath the weight of a fallen twig or branch.
A whisper scurries beneath the carpet
Of dead leaves, brown, chthonic, grossly vegetative
Coated with something that seems to waver
Between the substance of soil and dust –
Indecisive about how to carve immortality’s
Signature in the forest floor, the ground decays
Like a voice left out in a night of hard rain sogged
With the same choking intensity of rain itself.

While looking at the asymmetrical arabesque
Of sunlight among hectic treetops, this late
Summer day, I hear the concentration
Of animal suffering in that same voice, yours,
Sobbing softly in my garden plot, not departing
Not arriving, but saying something in between,
In that time all creatures were there to name,
Before we knew each other enough to know
A bear and her cub are not so soon parted
As human beings and their paradise.

Wiseblood report: 8 Days and Virtue by FOK Andrew McNabb

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On September 18, 2014, Divine Providence Press will publish, under one cover, both 8 Days and Virtue, Andrew McNabb’s book-length prose poem, or “mystical prayer.”  These two works are inextricably linked; as McNabb details in 8 Days, it was at the very moment he typed the period that would end Virtue that his odyssey emphatically began.

In 8 Days, he recounts the ecstatic mystical religious experiences that took place in his life over an eight day period in 2011. With literary attention, this career short-story writer, husband, and father of four details how he was swept up into a place “not quite here” and “not quite there,” a place in which he experienced both the ethereal and the terrifying, the awe-inspiring and the confounding.

Virtue is a paean, a poetic and prayerful work that seeks, also, to be instructive by way of a logical progression which culminates, ultimately, at that highest point on the spiritual mountain: union with Him in true love.  

Order it here.