Wednesday, April 08, 2026
"They met through writing graffiti."
"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.
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
"original drum"
lunar walnut lollard
allowed selcouth welcome
shades drawn on the shindig
ashram for the sampos
asperity's speed-run
spurious-out surrey
"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
Tuesday, April 07, 2026
"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
"The only Emperor is the Emperor of White Phosphorus." —sayings of Asmoday
"...among them the ten-year-old Martin Luther King."
Hymn.
"Because the fact of the matter is: We did not have to be here." —Naghmeh Sohrabi via
"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).
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.
"and all the places I have been
and why you were not there"
—Townes van Zant
"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
Monday, April 06, 2026
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
"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
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 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 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.
"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
spray thrown up glitters
in the early morning sun
my jacket buttoned
new photos of the whole Earth
not even explosions show
"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
" 'Help!' cried Toad. 'My best friend is trying to kill me!'
'I’m only getting you ready for winter,' said Frog."
—@frogandtoadbot.bsky.social
Sunday, April 05, 2026
"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
"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."
"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
"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
Saturday, April 04, 2026
"It would be nice / to interfere with the accuracy of the world."
- Lisa Robertson, Palinode via @jacobwren.bsky.social
raj piranhamasia
rhost turpitude Britbox
tall blonde roast attending
teakwood sequence scatterlings
sugar on their meat, sugar on their veg'tables
wrest duck-rabbit Easter
routine death mooted
bright Sunday, brindled fortunes
abrupt end to pinwheels
look! it's a bird laden
lethally, bound for teeth-testing
Why this is class war; nor are you out of it.
"I came back from the year 3056 to witness the birth of our music."
"Japan just unveiled a drone made entirely of cardboard." —@kyleruggles.bsky.social via
“Unregarding
Put by thy days like withered flowers
In twilight hidden away:
Memory shall upbuild thee bowers
Sweeter than they.
Hoard not from swiftness of thy stream
The shallowest cruse of tears:
Pools still as heaven shall lovelier dream
In future years.
Squander thy love as she that flings
Her soul away on night;
Lovely are love’s far echoings,
Height unto height.
O, make no compact with the sun,
No compact with the moon!
Night falls full-cloaked, and light is gone
Sudden and soon.”
—Walter de la Mare
The Basilica Cistern in Istanbul.
"To Emily Dickinson
You who desired so much–in vain to ask—
Yet fed you hunger like an endless task,
Dared dignify the labor, bless the quest—
Achieved that stillness ultimately best,
Being, of all, least sought for: Emily, hear!
O sweet, dead Silencer, most suddenly clear
When singing that Eternity possessed
And plundered momently in every breast;
—Truly no flower yet withers in your hand.
The harvest you descried and understand
Needs more than wit to gather, love to bind.
Some reconcilement of remotest mind—
Leaves Ormus rubyless, and Ophir chill.
Else tears heap all within one clay-cold hill."
—Hart Crane
["Ormus" = Kingdom of Hormuz]
Me forcing my friends to listen to my special interests.
“Howsomever, that don’t argufy in reverence of his being in a hurry; and a man may be sometimes a little too judgmatical in his conjectures.” —Peregrine Pickle
3 years ago, near Pleaantville.
It's tempting to use the analogy of rats.
"Author William Peter Blatty once won $10,000 on You Bet Your Life. When Groucho Marx asked what he planned to do with the money, he said he planned to take some time off to work on a novel. The result was The Exorcist (1973)." —@batboy222.bsky.social
"Then and there, I knew that color would haunt me forever.."
"THE CRUCIFIXION
And the centurion who stood by said:
Truly this was a son of God.
Not long ago but everywhere I go
There is a hill and a black windy sky.
Portent of hill, sky, day's eclipse I know:
Hill, sky, the shuddering darkness, these am I.
The dying at His right hand, at His left
I am—the thief redeemed and the lost thief;
I am the careless folk; I those bereft,
The Well-Belov'd, the women bowed in grief.
The gathering Presence that in terror cried,
In earth's shock, in the Temple's veil rent through,
I; and a watcher, ignorant, curious-eyed,
I the centurion who heard and knew."
—Adelaide Crapsey
The problem with social media.
“For Harvest
The year turns to its rest.
Up from the earth, the fields, the early-fallen dew,
Moves the large star at evening, Arcturus low with autumn,
And summer calls in her many voices upon the frost.
I who have not seen for weeping
The plum ripen and fall, or the yellowing sheaf,
Am not unmindful now of the season that came and went,
The hours that told off freshness,
The bud and the rich leaf.
Though I turned aside before the summer
And weathered but a season of the mind,
Let me sit among you when the husk is stripped,
Let me tell by the bright grain,
Those labours in an acre of cloud and the reap of the wind.”
—Léonie Adams
"It's just not plausible that someone is teleporting into a waffle house because waffle houses are anchored sites of hyperreality. I don't think tarot even works in them. If he was claiming that he spatially displaced into a denny's that'd be worth investigating" —@brunodias.bsky.social
Friday, April 03, 2026
“But why do I talk of rascality? folly, folly is the scourge of life! Give me a scoundrel (so he be a sensible one), and I will put him in my heart of hearts; but a fool is more mischievous than famine, pestilence, and war.” –Peregrine Pickle
Doing the Great Loop on a jet ski.
Room Full of Light
Room full of light, emptying.
Me here, listening to a whalesong snatch
over the traffic, and then more music.
I could fall asleep by this window
wondering about the whales
and how they came to be on my radio just now.
Asleep in the sunlight–to wake in darkness.
It wouldn’t be hard at all.
A strange destiny like the recorded voice
of one sad whale stolen and smuggled into the city,
where it became, with a light enough room,
one of many recognitions.
(from Raps Clack Calcspar, 1984)
"Despite the name, sextrance has nothing to do with sex or sexuality."
"death & transfiguration of america"
fighter down · desert rubble
flick doubloon
in the cruel flow
sonic crackle · sends its regards
sleepwalkers zigzag · in an empty field
“[T]he most novel threat of our time might not be any particular piece of technology, but the widespread acceptance of the ideology of information.“
Lowry Pressly, The Right to Oblivion: Privacy and the Good Life via @patrickjordananderson
“Nevertheless, he still tarried about the skirts of Parnassus, translating some of the classics, and writing miscellanies; and, by dint of an invincible assurance, supercilious insolence, the most undaunted virulence of tongue, and some knowledge of life, he made shift to acquire and maintain the character of a man of learning and wit, in the opinion of people who had neither; that is, thirty-nine in forty of those with whom he associated himself.” –Peregrine Pickle
"dark clouds above Osage Plaza"
Innsmouth amsace turgid
Adderol-whirred padlock
repair where the whorl slows
Pyongyang playlist waystar
blockadefest & blitzkrieg
oblate spheroid meerkat