( via / via )

Chesterton again.

"Spring

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers."

—Edna St. Vincent Millay via

Sunrise Currumbin Beach.

" "Now that all the clocks have melted, let us salute Salvador Dali." —@andreicodrescu

"But as it is, I'm like an insect that's flown into a room of its own accord. I dash against the walls, dash against the windows, flop against the ceiling, do everything on God's earth, in fact, except fly out again.."

( via / me )

"Overall there are remarkably few typically bibliophilic indulgences, like his complaint that a catalog of arms, issued by the Bulletin of the Public Museums of Milwaukee in 1928, misspells the name of a pistol manufacturer (vol. 3, p. 39)."

"Fantasy stories have always let us vicariously participate with characters in confronting impossible crises, but seldom the sort of existential trap doors that Dick’s characters face. You’d have to go to the plays of Ionesco or Pinter or Becket to find anything similar, but Dick’s characters are far more real than theirs, and his characters’ situations are far more convincing." —Tim Powers via

"Robert Frost, like Jimi Hendrix, had to go to England to get famous in America."

"The Yellow Flicker Runway"

Sumatra in my ammo box, not yet done
with the old cheap coffee. Mild crepuscular war
on the airwaves taut with rages that concur
& i feel seen by tremulous shards of dawn.
Battlefields where hist'ry dropped the ball
& wounds expired without a chance to play.
I story them with tutelary awe
knowing that ev'ry one of us must fail.
This civilization bites the dust once more.
Disease in management is hard to cure.
Books accumulate like shadowy leaves
the World Tree sheds, hour by hour removes.
It is a riddle for Pellucidar
one raids with brisk, imaginary knives.

"I'm really supposed to be writing my novel, but instead I decided to write a passage capturing the Australian essence."

( via / via )

Irimias the Obscure.

the long flame dying
dry boardwalk in winter
      meniscus
   skewwhiff measure
turquoise clawsnatch · cliff crumble
the wind riffling wanhope
waning golden doldrums
      hospital
   view of havoc
pixel swarm · the swag store

Joyce on Joyce.

"SHELLS (Anagrammed Lines)

Dream the Earth's loneliness.
The islands are solemn there.
Hear sea, tormented in shells."

—@anthonyetherin

"You can safely ignore the reader's taste, but you can't ignore his nature.."

( via / via )

An Iranian girl playing on the swings on Khajeh Atta Beach.

"Things are so ugly politically, so violent, so merciless, so frightening. I want to run towards poetry and song to escape. But I do think of those who cannot run anywhere. For whom there is no refuge." —@zeeshanpathan.bsky.social

Borgund Stavkirke.

"apple of my ear"

lost bitterly · the bare cantrip
fadge a fam'ly · Avignon
in the late sunlight · cirrus frozen
alley empty · telephone numb
World War III · is just a number
Amazon van · leaves on the stoop

We recorded a goodbye video.

( @jakejfried / via google street view )

A pyritized ammonite.

"Baudelaire: The Albatross

Sometimes for sport the men of loafing crews
Snare the great albatrosses of the deep,
The indolent companions of their cruise
As through the bitter vastitudes they sweep.

Scarce have they fished aboard these airy kings
When helpless on such unaccustomed floors,
They piteously droop their huge white wings
And trail them at their sides like drifting oars.

How comical, how ugly, and how meek
Appears this soarer of celestial snows!
One, with his pipe, teases the golden beak,
One, limping, mocks the cripple as he goes.

The Poet, like this monarch of the clouds,
Despising archers, rides the storm elate.
But, stranded on the earth to jeering crowds,
The great wings of the giant baulk his gait."

—Roy Campbell

As much of my essay on Ohaeng as i feel like writing right now.

"There’s a flagrancy to this evil that I’ve never really seen before in my life. History is, of course, full of such episodes. But in this case it is combined with a sort of puerility. That is something much more rare, possibly unique. Bernanos is probably the only writer I know who specialised in depicting merged evil and puerility. I never thought I would see it with my own eyes."
—@nikprassas

"Tonight, you cannot trust the stars..."

( via / via )

New Empedocles found.

"DeLillo gives pride of place to baseball stadiums, nuclear weapons, and a sense of menace alloyed with the yearnings realized in our relationships with garbage, subways, typewriters, and remote controls. " —M H Rowe via

How I cried.

        “Autumn

There is a wind where the rose was;
Cold rain where sweet grass was;
    And clouds like sheep
    Stream o'er the steep
Grey skies where the lark was.

Nought gold where your hair was;
Nought warm where your hand was;
    But phantom, forlorn,
    Beneath the thorn,
Your ghost where your face was.

Sad winds where your voice was;
Tears, tears where my heart was;
    And ever with me,
    Child, ever with me,
Silence where hope was.”

—Walter de la Mare

Neandermaxxing.

( me / via )

Selena Calavera.

"the story of positional chess"

brillig pinnacle
words fade into words
someone else is aiming
ire-rockets at the tire tracks

Hormuz waters' wayzone
weary with clear nonsense
clockwork psychedelic
self poised at the wharf-brink

flashing yellow arrow
Leitkegels in vague line

The Moon.

"...no one has ever created a world worth living in without first breaking faith with the world they inherited and paying for the departure with something real." —Barnes via

Dostoevsky's Romantasy.

( via / via )

Gramsci's Ashes.

"BREAKING: Following the American threat of an 'Avignon Papacy', Robert Kennedy has begun a Diet of Worms" —@wesburdine.bsky.social

Rain in Charleston.

"FAR SIDE OF THE MOON (Palindrome)

Wonder:
a dark side;
to me, rarer....
A remote disk —
radared now."

—@anthonyetherin.bsky.social

A Folklore Curriculum.

( oil painting by me / via )

"They met through writing graffiti."

grayblue spring, granules
engraved with harsh flavors
      chase across
   crystal landscapes
armament fact'ry · fluorescent lit
vanilla scent covers
a faint oiliness
      filtered air
   smileyface safe
security badges · with bad photos
a racial mix · good benefits

"Some of her poems are intensely devotional whereas others question or rage against the whole idea of a benevolent Creator."

"Presenting the reopening the Strait of Hormuz as a victory is like the Greeks failing to take Troy but celebrating the safe return of their wooden horse" —@henrymance.ft.com

Various moonlight paintings by John Atkinson Grimshaw.

( me / via )

Trad Cosplay on the Predator Savannah.

"The whale was now going head out, and sending his spout before him in a continual tormented jet" —@mobydickatsea.bsky.social

Ontario Apeiron.

"original drum"

lunar walnut lollard
allowed selcouth welcome
shades drawn on the shindig
ashram for the sampos
asperity's speed-run
spurious-out surrey

Smoke-Jumper.

( via / me )

Armagideon Time.

"Fillmorbidity"

far side of the mizzenmast
a little war · almost like practice
hircinian melee
corsepresent · clown of the hour

lawnmower awakened
to the old frenzy · & a topped-off tank

Orange Floyd.

"It’s hard to believe Floral Shoppe is 15 years old." —Twerb Jebbins via

Thristnidinghent.

( me / via )

The Sound of Trees.

"we are all just prisoners here
of our own device"

—"Hotel California"

What three versions of Beowulf tell us about translation.

"FOUR PAINTERS (Lipograms*)

Vincent van Gogh
can achieve the evening;
he cannot
negotiate night.

…

Paul Cézanne
can puzzle a plane:
a nuance can peel an apple.

…

Salvador Dalí is viral:
a vivid iris; a sordid oasis.
…

Pablo Picasso spills classics.

…

(*Each stanza= letters of name)"

—Anthony Etherin

Psycho Killer.

( via / me )

Gleipnir: to Bind the Wolf.

"googol-dunning-kruger"

sounds coming from the cam'ra
occult lucid truce
the clown hour owns us
airspace & iron cage
halcyon were the wheel marks
where we could steer free
sounds coming from the cam'ra
carve the starving word
carve the starving word

carve the starving word

Satrapi on the situation.

"The only Emperor is the Emperor of White Phosphorus." —sayings of Asmoday

"...among them the ten-year-old Martin Luther King."

( via / via )

Hymn.

"Because the fact of the matter is: We did not have to be here." —Naghmeh Sohrabi via

"The predominant tone is that of a dark, almost nihilistic comedy, milking the grim absurdity of Seneca’s protracted, agonizingly verbose attempts to end his own life."

"My Grandfather's Church Goes Up

God is a fire in the head
          — Nijinsky

Holocaust, pentecost: · what heaped heartbreak:

The tendrils of fire · forthrightly tasting
foundation to rooftree · flesh of that edifice …
Why was sear sent · to sunder those jointures,
the wheat-hued wood · wasted to heaven?
Both altar and apse · the air ascended
in sullen smoke.

      (It was surely no sign
of God’s grievance · but grizzled Weird grimly
and widely wandering.)

     The dutiful worshippers
Stood afar ghast-struck · as the green cedar shingles
Burst outward like birds · disturbed in their birling.
Choir stall crushed inward · flayed planking in curliques
back on it bending, · broad beams of chestnut
oak poplar and pine · gasht open paint-pockets.
And the organ uttered · an unholy Omega
as gilt pipes and pedals · pulsed into rubble.

How it all took tongue! · A total hosannah
this building burgeoned, · the black hymnals whispering
leaves lisping in agony · leaping alight,
sopranos’ white scapulars · each singly singeing
robes of the baritones · roaring like rivers
the balcony bellowing · and buckling. In the basement
where the M.Y.F. · had mumbled for mercies
the cane-bottom chairs · chirruped Chinese.
What a glare · of garish glottals
rose from the nave · what knar-mouthed natter!
And the transept tottered · intoning like tympani
as the harsh heat · held hold there.
The whole church resounded · reared its rare anthem
Crying out Christ-mercy · to the cloud-cloven sky.

Those portents Saint Paul · foretold to us peoples
fresh now appeared: · bifurcate fire-tongues,
as of wild winds · a swart mighty wrestling,
blood fire and vapor · of smoke vastly vaulting,
the sun into darkness · deadened and dimmed,
wonders in heaven · signs wrought in the world:
the Spirit poured out · on souls of us sinners.
In this din of drunkenness · the old men dreamed dreams,
the daughters and sons · supernal sights saw.
God’s gaudy grace · grasped them up groaning.
Drought parched within them · pure power overtaking
their senses. Sobbing · like sweethearts bereft
the brothers and sisters · burst into singing.
Truly the Holy · Ghost here now halted,
held sway in their hearts · healed there the hurt.

Now over the narthex · the neat little steeple
force of the fire · felt furiously.
Bruit of black smoke · borne skyward
shadowed its shutters · swam forth in swelter.
It stood as stone · for onstreaming moments
then carefully crumpled · closed inward in char.
The brass bell within it · broke loose, bountifully
pealing, plunged · plangent to the pavement
and a glamour of clangor · gored cloudward gaily.

That was the ringing that wrung · remorse out of us clean,
the elemental echo · the elect would hear always;
in peace or in peril · that peal would pull them.
Seventeen seasons · have since parted
the killing by fire · of my grandfather’s kirk.
Moving of our Maker · on this middle earth
is not to be mind-gripped · by any men.

Here Susan and I · saw it, come
to this wood, wicker · basket and wool blanket
swung between us, · in sweet June
on picnic. Prattling · like parakeets
we smoothed out for our meal-place · the mild meadow grasses
and spread our sandwiches · in the sunlit greensward.
Then amorously ate. · And afterward
Lay languorous and · looking lazily.
Green grass and pokeweed · gooseberry bushes
pink rambling rose · and raspberry vine
sassafras and thistle · and serrate sawbriar
clover and columbine · clung to the remnants,
grew in that ground · once granted to God.
Blackbirds and thrushes · built blithely there
The ferret and kingsnake · fed in the footing.
The wilderness rawly · had walked over those walls
and the deep-drinking forest · had driven them down.

Now silence sang: · swoon of wind
ambled the oak trees · and arching aspens.

In happy half-sleep · I heard or half-heard
in the bliss of breeze · breath of my grandfather,
vaunt of his voice · advance us vaward.
No fears fretted me · and a freedom followed
this vision vouchsafed, · victory of spirit.
He in the wind · wept not, but wonderfully
spoke softly · soothing to peace.

What mattered he murmured · I never remembered,
words melted in wisps · washed whitely away;
but calm came into me · and cool repose.
Where Fate had fixed · no fervor formed;
he had accepted · wholeness of his handiwork.

gain it was given · to the Grace-grain that grew it,
had gone again · gleaming to Genesis

to the stark beginning · where the first stars burned.
Touchless and tristless · time took it anew
and changed that church-plot · to an enchanted chrisom
of leaf and flower · of lithe light and shade.

Pilgrim, the past · becomes prayer
becomes remembrance rock-real · of Resurrection
when the Willer so willeth · works his wild wonders."

—Fred Chappell via

Tennyson’s Lotos-Eaters (1832).

( via / via )

At least somebody was paying attention.

a great empire will be destroyed,
the oracle said.
we take it in stride.
a great empire will be destroyed
like they all were, purpose strayed.
who can be sad? a great empire

will be destroyed.
the oracle said.

Ode to Eris.

"and all the places I have been
and why you were not there"

—Townes van Zant

Versions of Vergil.

( via / via )

SNL UK is on it.

"I can usually tell when people are kidding BUT

I told my friend that I had started writing a novel on Substack and she asked in perfectly flat English was there a Domstack option too." —@cece21xxx.bsky.social

"Thirty-six degrees in the shade, and a coup d’état - just what suits me."

"wombat comsat honking"

dive catacombover
Arapaho capture
pothole shadows shuttle
& shaped wheels stand draping
suspense fries our frogurt
Freitod river's shiv
chyron snark unmakes me
the million mile Brillo

The Highway Kind.

( me / via )

Landscape with The Temptation of Saint Anthony.

      "cyanide tooth"

my bet's on the devil · doing something wrong
      flicker rides
   flagrant side left
train delays · this boxcar load
breaking through · threnody of sun
      shine redbrick's
   pangolin mask
stone bench · crosswalk hurricane

Winter Window.

"But it turns out that a lot of my so-called thoughts — a flattering term for these gossamer traces of mental activity — are preverbal, often showing up as images, sensations, or concepts, with words trailing behind as a kind of afterthought, belated attempts to translate these elusive wisps of meaning into something more substantial and shareable." —Michael Pollan via

From the ruins of Smyrna.

( via / via )

Hootch.

"i think the swear jar is the whitest object ever" —@arthurmudd

The Swan.

"flicker companion"

what's next, Tesseract?
treacly umber rumba
pallid pills' moondance
solid pall partner
coup d'état coldpack
discover scrub lovenest
jangles-the-keys king hunt
juju thimble amscray

Saul Bass and Phase IV.

( via / via )

Only an amateur believes in the magical efficacy of procedures.

"To Earthward

Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air

That crossed me from sweet things,
The flow of—was it musk
From hidden grapevine springs
Down hill at dusk?

I had the swirl and ache
From sprays of honeysuckle
That when they’re gathered shake
Dew on the knuckle.

I craved strong sweets, but those
Seemed strong when I was young;
The petal of the rose
It was that stung.

Now no joy but lacks salt
That is not dashed with pain
And weariness and fault;
I crave the stain

Of tears, the aftermark
Of almost too much love,
The sweet of bitter bark
And burning clove.

When stiff and sore and scarred,
I take away my hand
From leaning on it hard
In grass and sand,

The hurt is not enough:
I long for weight and strength
To feel the earth as rough
To all my length."

—Robert Frost

"But what struck me in that moment was that the news had to blur the words the President used."

"My string of jewels, if you must break,
then break. This relentless longing
is more than I can bear."

—Princess Shikishi, tr Alice Allan via

The Howling Spark.

( me / via )

The pleasure junks of destruction.

"OF SWORD AND SORCERY (Redivider)

Hero, deal one insight here:
Make swords quicken.
Trust tomes’ words.
Cast lessons,
to ward
the mage’s wand....
Eras lance sand, drag on.
Soft
wines
talk
in golden
trances
tonight.

He rode alone.
In sight,
he remakes words....
'Quick, entrust to me swords, castles, sons!'
Toward them,
ages wander,
as lances and dragons of twine
stalking old entrances
to night."

—Anthony Etherin

"The elevated language we associate with him is more an artifact of stuffy translation than a feature of the poems themselves."

"The deleterious effects of not having a hobby are becoming a defining point in this cultural moment—and who is poised to help? That’s right: the autistics. Job fair day where we all set up tables explaining our deep dives and give people a hand out, a path back to society."
—@saramchenry.bsky.social

Rabbit contemplates eternity on a quiet morning.

( via / via )

The Party of the Underdog.

"But most people who walk through campus have no idea that its buildings are just as decorative and fundamentally a work of fantasy as those in Disneyland." —Freddie DeBoer via

"I’ve been reading the poems of Borges, and it strikes me that he is a marvelously kindred spirit to that Cubano-French jewel of the Parnassians, José Maria de Heredia."

   spray thrown up glitters
in the early morning sun
   my jacket buttoned

new photos of the whole Earth
not even explosions show

Fashion in sci-fi settings.

( via / via )

"It is almost dawn in Tehran. So far, no air raid."

"the call of the loon"

war news, things they'll weasel
out of wording, birdlime
for a storm. black stirrup
& starburst eyeball vibeworm
as you sneeze blaze-snorkels

empty micowave running

One of you will betray me.

" 'Help!' cried Toad. 'My best friend is trying to kill me!'

'I’m only getting you ready for winter,' said Frog."

—@frogandtoadbot.bsky.social

"A clear eye perceives the gap between the micropolitics of recognition and the macropolitics of annihilation. The demand for a new politics begins precisely here: in the refusal to let the exhausted signifiers of the old order survive the collapse that has unmasked them."

( via / via )

The Void.

"The future. I am afraid we all want it too quickly. As if the whole of mankind, from the Ancient Romans to the Babylonians, from the pharaohs to the here and now, are all possessed, lined up and in synchronized formation are marching steadily to their futuristic demise. We have become a robotic death march to an illusion. We never needed to fear them, we ought to have feared becoming them. And with all our toys, all the accessories of the present day, we are still locked inside the cave, shouting at the wall, mystified with fire, afraid of the dark, curious about our celestial company, and still sketching out brute portraits on the cave wall with blackberry ink and formulating our symbols inside tribes of no escape." —Judson Stacy Vereen via

The new gnosis.

"doctor death"

festooned void, matutinal
brinksmanship. green spoon warding
Preoria in the ire harvest

festooned void, pulling down
ornaments i put up Saturday

"Over the next decade, Ruth Coker Burks cared for more than 1,000 people dying of AIDS."

( me / via )

Simulation of Seattle.

"Brod und Wein 7.

But Friend, we have come too late. That yes, the Gods do live
But up above our heads, in some other world;
They endlessly work on, and seem to pay little heed,
Whether we live or die; so much they spare us, the Heavenly Ones.
For our frail vessel is not always able to hold them fast forever;
Only sometimes can man bear divine fullness.
A dream of them so then drives this life. Wandering,
Helps—like sleep—and necessity and night strengthen,
Until the heroes are grown enough in the bronze cradle,
With hearts as strong, in their nature, alike to the Heavenly Gods;
Thundering they roar awake. Yet often it seems to me,
It is better to stay sleeping than to exist so without companions.
How to wait, and what to do in the meantime and what to say--
I don’t know. And what are poets for in such a meagre time?
But they are, you say, like the Wine-God’s holy priests,
Who move from land to land in the sacred night."

—Hölderlin tr A.V. Marraccini via

It's Jesus who is wrong.

"The story our grandchildren, if any, will tell about the second and third decades of this new century is very much one of the rejection of a kinder, wiser America opening up to a post-Cold War planet, just as little Vlad’s grandkids will write of his sad attempts to reconstruct Ye Olde Soviet Union, nostalgia flecked with bombs and drone warfare." —Ron Silliman via

Interpretive.

( via / oil painting by me )

Giant stump.

"It would be nice / to interfere with the accuracy of the world."
- Lisa Robertson, Palinode via @jacobwren.bsky.social

"I’d taken an inexplicable fancy to Samuel Johnson and James Boswell several years back. They are Frog and Toad for the adult female anglophile."

raj piranhamasia
rhost turpitude Britbox
tall blonde roast attending
teakwood sequence scatterlings
sugar on their meat, sugar on their veg'tables

Dance for Uneven Ground.