Mood.
“Our heart is a defective instrument, a lyre with several chords missing, which forces us to express our joyful moods in notes meant for lamentation.”
— Chateaubriand, René (tr. Irving Putter) via @yoonkim.bsky.social
Julie Harris reading Emily Dickinson.
"Red Alphabet"
The dragon slays itself with lots of help.
Never were heroes. Only the heroes know.
Of definitions, in definition-hell
it was a war; in words the trapdoors ope.
I have seen walls fall down, & footprints left
on regolith. In time the bad guys fold
almost like stories say. Unparallelled
only if hist'ry-class the reader loafed.
Peevish when i would gather my narrowing realm
into a semblance of coherent spite,
i want to see, before the polecaps melt,
with Nuremberg this sordid chronicle rhyme.
Enough if two or three of the monsters hang,
or drink AI, or some other equal thing.
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