"I am no melody, I am no lute
I am the sound that my own breaking makes

You, and the coiling tresses of your hair
I, and my endless dark imaginings..."

--from The Oxford India Ghalib


I've studied the wallcrack
from which Roderick
Usher filled his syringe

at regular intervals but
no decalcomania occurs
when I trace it in my mind

nor find a speck of chaos
to watch writhe. Illiterate
each pattern bolts me back

till teen angst hurts less
than birth beyond which
it's all alien, lightyears

assert themselves every
sill, or toppling snowfall
mimes the air with blue

precisions. Is it right to
frame it in errors largess
costumes in such nemesis,

encrusting the nostrils
with navels for example,
letting the body's rooms

merge in decay or worse,
cognition. My sister
counts worms for luck,

the curse of us Ushers
towers over the muck
it sucks its swamp from.

--Bill Knott

"The man who has been wrong about everything gets the full support of his party, yet President Obama can’t find enough audacity to stick up for a true change agent?" (via sugergee)




The Wow Signal. (via Metafilter)