Friday, November 30, 2018

Derek And The Dominos - Bell Bottom Blues (1970)

Bell bottom blues, you made me cry.
I don't want to lose this feeling.
And if I could choose a place to die
It would be in your arms.

Do you want to see me crawl across the floor to you?
Do you want to hear me beg you to take me back?
I'd gladly do it because
I don't want to fade away.
Give me one more day, please.
I don't want to fade away.
In your heart I want to stay.

It's all wrong, but it's all right.
The way that you treat me baby.
Once I was strong but I lost the fight.
You won't find a better loser.

[Chorus 2x]

Bell bottom blues, don't say goodbye.
I'm sure we're gonna meet again,
And if we do, don't you be surprised
If you find me with another lover.


I don't want to fade away.
Give me one more day please.
I don't want to fade away.
In your heart I long to stay.

Tuesday, November 27, 2018

Paul McCartney: 1985 (1974)

Paul McCartney - Wanderlust (1982)

John Lennon: Going Down on Love (1974)

"Going Down On Love"
Got to get down, down on my knees
Got to get down, down on my knees
Going down on love
Going down on love
Going down, going down, going down

When the real thing goes wrong
And you can't get it on
And your love she has gone
And you got to carry on
And you shoot out the light
Ain't coming home for the night
You know you got to, got to, got to pay the price

Somebody please, please help me
You know I'm drowning in the sea of hatred

Got to get down, down on my knees
Got to get down, down on my knees
Going down on love
Going down on love
Going down, going down, going down

Something precious and rare
Disappears in thin air
And it seems so unfair
Nothing doin' nowhere
Well you burn all your boats
And you sow your wild oats
Well you know, you know, you know the price is right!

Got to get down, down on my knees
Got to get down, down on my knees
Got to get down, down on my knees
Got to get down, down on my knees


I heard this 1970 song for the first time in the summer of 1980 on the radio, when I was guilted into visiting my divorced father in South Dakota. I was 15; my father, living in Air Force baracks, spent my entire visit from Texas haranguing me about whatever, then drunkenly jacking off in the next room. I don't think much of John Lennon now, but at the time, when I was 15, I thought he was bold and mighty. I was thrilled when I heard this song.

After Lennon had been shot to death the following December of that year, my father made yet another call to my mother's house (part of a continual series of traumatic calls to the house post their 1977 divorce). This time, to neurotically question me: "You wouldn't care if I were dead." I didn't say it at the time because I was a scared, puzzled kid, but today I don't think I would be so polite: No, I really wouldn't give a shit. Lennon was never mean to me, you asshole.

Sunday, November 25, 2018

Rupert Holmes - Escape (The Pina Colada Song) (1979)

The '70s Party Classics CD is truly great.

Billy Dont Be A Hero (1974)

More from the '70s Party Classics CD.

Clint Holmes - Playground In My Mind (1972)

From the '70s Party Classics CD that I've been listening to all night:

Saturday Notes

Four-day holiday from work:

Thursday: Ate my own Thanksgiving meal. Mildly depressed about not being with family, as I have been up until last year. But then: In the past, I was usually kind of the adjunct and I felt it. Time to move on and do my own thing, however lonely.

Friday: Stayed on the couch all day with a hangover, watching the UT Longhorns victory on TV, then other random TV for the rest of the hours in the day.

Saturday: A couple of hours of driving errands. Returned a sweater to The Gap; shopped unsuccessfully for bargains at Sue Patrick (tried to equal the exuberant greeting upon my entrance to this upscale Texas store); went to the Dollar Store and got cheap lighters and cheap cat dishes; went to Target trying to find a new microwave (my mother's hand-me-down from 1985 is about to give out) --- all the microwaves were cheap and horrible, but I did find three cheap shirts and some sweatpants; at the end got my favorite KFC three-strips meal and went home to watch horrible tales of serial killers on the REELZ network. Was happily surprised by how empty and relaxed the stores were on Saturday. Because the huge sales took place on Black Friday, I suppose, and everyone was tapped out the day after? Traffic was nice; The Gap and Target were mostly empty, with relaxed and helpful staff...

In Penny Family News:
OK, recap: There's Penny (the original cat hanging around), Henny Penny (looks just like Penny except a scarred nose and shorter tail), Papa Penny, and L'il Penny. Papa Penny scares Penny and Henny. Often, he sits on my back step both in the mornings, and in the evenings ahead of feeding time (when I get home after 5pm): If he's there, Penny and Henny might be in the vicinity watching, but they won't actually come into the fenced area. Friday, Penny and Henny got there first and were eating... Then Papa Penny started approaching from outside the fence... Penny and Henny spotted him and both immediately stopped eating and started backing off from their food dishes in literal slow motion. (Papa Penny is old and fat and can't see that well. For instance, he can be sitting right outside my sliding glass door, but when I open the blinds, he doesn't move. And when I lightly tap on the glass, he looks up vaguely, but not directly at me. That's why I think Henny/Penny move so slowly when they see him coming --- they know he can't see them exactly!) Henny and Penny can take turns sharing one dish between them without getting overly aggressive with each other (I've seen each bop the other on top of the head sans claws, but that's all), so I can tell they were born at the same time, but they're both scared of Papa. p.s. Thursday eve, I included some Thanksgiving turkey meat for Henny and Penny, which FINALLY got an anticipatory MEOW out of Henny! (I'd never heard any of the Family talk before!)

Friday, November 23, 2018

What to do with $30,000?

I'm not clever enough to invest $30,000 and make any money out of it.

To (legally) avoid taxes, my mother started a fund for me a decade ago. Now up to $30,000.

It's now in my hands. I can withdraw the money at any time, or let it sit and increase. What should I do with it? Down payment on a house in Austin (I first moved to Austin in 1983 and liked it then; today, "tech Austin" is NOTHING like where I'd want to live). Save it for after I retire? Take it and move back to NYC (really, Weehawken, which is where I really want to go back to)?

I'm 53. Were I in my early 30s or early 40s, I'd take back off for NYC in a second. I hate myself for being such a coward now.

My Solo Thanksgiving went fine...

I cooked every pre-cooked and canned thing within a half-hour while watching the Cowboys. Have leftovers for the next week. And The Penny Family (Penny, Henny Penny, Papa Penny, L'il Penny) has plenty o' scraps waiting.

Tuesday, November 20, 2018

Obnoxious/"Evil" Postal Worker

Back in September, I was going through a Nicholas II kick, reading numerous Russian/Romanov Dynasty history books, etc., and at one point getting so into it that I ordered a "Christos / Victory" bumpersticker from a Russian Orthodox source in Russia (in solidarity with the Romanovs over the godless Marxists).

Since I tend to order stuff online, a big pile of packages built up, which I didn't check. Finally, last week, I started to open smaller packages that might be that bumpersticker. Didn't find it. A tracking check said that a notice had been left with me October 9 (no, I received nothing), and that the package would be sent back to Russia if I didn't claim it (and probably had already been sent back).

I went to my post office today, with print-outs of the tracking number, etc. I expected nothing.

The guy at the "non-monetary" window of the PO took my info, confirmed my address, asked if I hadn't received that pink-slip notification, etc. No, I hadn't.

A few minutes later, he returned:

PO GUY: I don't know if you'll like this...
ME: Aaah. I didn't think it would be here.
PO GUY: Well, I have some news for you...Here it is.
ME: Oh my god! THANK YOU!
PO GUY: Usually people have a fit and get mad. Then when I tell them the package is here after all, they act all humble and have to explain themselves.
ME: I love you! You're EVIL but I love you!
PO GUY: It's the holidays, I like to amuse myself.
ME: 'Tis the season for amusement!

All of the back-and-forth was only just mildly amusing... I was VERY glad to find out that the sticker was indeed here and hadn't been sent back to Russia (never to be seen again). And the guy was funny --- but was he right in doing psychological tests on post office patrons?

Sunday, November 18, 2018

Squeeze - Is That Love? (1981)

Squeeze - Black Coffee in Bed (1982)

Squeeze - Tempted (1981)

Pulling Muscles from the Shell - Squeeze (1980)

Squeeze - Goodbye Girl (1978)

What Makes You Feel Good

For the past two weeks at work, I've had three projects that had to get done and were in danger of not getting done unless I BUSTED MY ASS.

As we all head into the Thanksgiving week, I have, indeed, busted said ass. I go into Monday with the great majority of my work done.

This is the first job I've had where I was actually responsible for something. Where it mattered if I did a good job or came in on weekends to work extra.

People feel good about different things. I feel good about having an intellectually satisfying job. Were I given a choice: Allegedly soulful lover or intellectually satisfying job... THE JOB. Without question. (The former is utterly a facade.)

Ready for My Own Thanksgiving

Went grocery shopping today to prepare for my own Thanksgiving on Thursday.

Back in the '90s, I worked with a couple of women around my age, all single in our early 30s. One of them was bragging about planning on going out to a bar on Thanksgiving and having a hamburger. At the time, I was going out a lot myself, but I countered her with: "I go out to bars and have hamburgers all the time. On THANKSGIVING I want my mother's cooking!" (At that time, I had my mom's house to go to in San Antonio.)

I haven't spoken to my mother since August of last year (2017), so this will be the second Thanksgiving on my own (well, aside from 1994 in grad school in San Francisco and 2007 thru 2009, when I was in NYC --- but I don't really count those since it was just a geographic, not psychological separation).

This Thursday, the Cowboys are playing the Redskins. It's very important for the NFC East. I'll make my own (to me) delicious dinner and enjoy the exciting game and the day.

Charlie Brown Thanksgiving?

Friday, November 16, 2018

12 minerals at the beginning of the world

I just learned today, at my geological job: At the creation of Earth, there were only 12 minerals, which, over billions of years until today, evolved into 5,000 minerals. One of the 12 originals is olivine. I started ordering olivine chunks from eBay.

Monday, November 12, 2018


1987:  My high school love Ginny, who was in '87 (unbeknownst to me) dying of a heart problem and who had abandoned me completely in '83 when I went off to college, called me in Austin in 1987 to see if I could come live with her in Georgia, where she'd had to move with her parents --- with no choice, because she was sick. She mistakenly thought that because I'd started college in the fall of '83, that I'd be automatically finished 4 years later, by the fall of '87. The girl she'd dumped me for in the fall of '83 (a mere couple of months after I'd left for college) was currently stuck in Azle attending to her own dying mother and so couldn't move to Georgia.

I wasn't finished with college, and told her so. The other girl's mother eventually died and the girl went to Georgia. Ginny died in early 1988. (I recently contacted the woman on Facebook, who, like me, said that Ginny was "the love of her life." Didn't tell her about this phone call.)

1995:  I ran into my first sexual partner Mollie, whom I was with from 1989 to 1991, and with whom I would ultimately be obsessed until 2000, in a club. She acted strangely nice to me, asked me to call her. When I called, turned out she wanted me to pay back $100 from way back in 1990 when she'd given me her credit card and told me to go buy a dress for some club event we were supposed to go to. (I couldn't find a dress that I liked and instead used the money for a car repair.) My grief was too heavy for the indoors. I went outside and sat on the back bumper of my car and wept for hours when I found out that she had only wanted me to call her because of a credit card bill of 5 years earlier.

1997:  I'd been infatuated with a local roots-rock musician for years, seeing him weekly in concert since the early '90s. At one point we agreed to meet up at a local club that often featured his band. I arrived and paid my own cover. He arrived a few minutes later... I'd thought that, for sure, he could get in for free, but no, I had to pay his cover! We roamed around the club and ultimately sat a table together, where he told another girl that they would "make beautiful babies together." He then said he was bored and asked to borrow $10. When I said no, he disappeared. (The same year, I remember he asked me to tape one of his performances on a local cable station: While I was doing so on August 31, Princess Diana was simultaneously dying in a French tunnel. I erased him.)

Today:  No, Sandra (whom I first fell in love with in a poetry class in '86 or so). Listening to you, and offering a place to live and help with a resume, yes. Paying your cover? No.

2008 and 2016: Clinton in the Democrat Primaries

I didn't realize this until now: In the 2008 Democrat primaries between Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama, Clinton actually won more of the total popular vote:

Clinton: 17,822,145
Obama: 17,535,458

But near the end, the "Superdelegates" (party regulars) turned on Clinton and gave their votes to Obama, giving him the victory. She, not wanting to appear "racist," caved, despite her greater popular vote.,_2008

In 2016, Clinton made sure the Superdelegates were hers. AND she also won the final popular vote:

Clinton: 16,914,722
Sanders: 13,206,428,_2016

In 2008, she actually won fair and square in the primaries, yet in the end gave in to her Superdelegate colleagues who crossed over to Obama, deeming him the "Golden Child" that she would just look petty if she opposed.

In 2016, she, ironically, legitimately won the popular vote against Sanders... yet still got crap for somehow being "an insider who STOLE the vote."

In fact, in 2008, Clinton bowed to the leftists in her party and LET her Dem nomination be stolen via Superdelegate lest she be decried as "racist." While in 2016, she legitimately won the nomination but was STILL denigrated by her party's Bernie Bros/Gals.

In the 2016 Presidential election, Clinton also won the popular vote. HOWEVER, the US system has always, since its founding, been based on Electoral College votes, not on popular votes. Trump won legitimately.

Trump:  Popular: 62,984,828    Electoral College: 304
Clinton:  Popular:  65,853,514    Electoral College: 227,_2016

I understand that Hillary is disturbed by how things have gone. But what I think she should be most disturbed about is the 2008 Democrat primary contest. In which she won the most votes and initially had the most Superdelegates, yet her party "encouraged" her to hand over Superdelegates to Obama... because it was (ha!) the "right thing to do." THAT is where the screwing occurred.

Hillary's loss in the primary of 2008 reminds me of the one time I have been called to appear on a jury. In San Francisco in '94 or so. A new mailman was bitten by a dog at a home. And he was subsequently suing the people at the home. But, as it turned out, San Fran had a coding system in their headquarters for houses with dogs. A red flag indicated not to go up to the door but just to leave mail outside a gate. On this particular day, headquarters messed up and didn't leave a flag. So the new mailman walked on up to the house... and got bit. Now, I saw this as the post office's fault for failing to flag the address, as they always had, for the new mailman. But what was the guy going to do, sue his employer?

What was Hillary supposed to do in 2008? She'd been screwed but couldn't say anything.

Saturday, November 10, 2018

Letter from San Francisco (1995)

Re-reading 1993's "The Truth the Dead Know, and Don't" (below entry) gave me insight into my self 25 years ago, when I was passionate about a deep loss, passionate about poetry, trying to figure out my mental state with words that I was still good at.

At 53 today, I'm not so passionate about anyone or about poetry. I only partially regret my loss of wanting others, although I fully regret my current lack of good eyesight and good hair. (I keep taking vitamins, and keep hoping that in doing so, all lost faculties will come back.) I'd forgotten how much I missed poetry.

Here's another poem, this one from 1995, written when I was in grad school in San Francisco, missing an older man, my former boss, whom I'd been sleeping with back home in Austin. Not that good as a poem at all, like I think "The Truth" is, but still. I miss feeling like that and being able to write anything, however bad, about it.

Letter from San Francisco
(60 Degrees and Raining on a Football Night in Texas)

What I've lost looks drastic from this end.
More in moments of beer, I admit, but still.
In your absence I've crashed, flashed back to every bad teacher, bad parent
I've ever had. And I'm thirty, thirsty, not dead yet, like every idol: but tired.
(And alone, having voted with my feet, cast things off, as required.)

Here, the uniform comes in all colors.
My South = Slaves. My Germany, Nazis all.
Solo-Nazi, I sleep alone, persecute Jews and everyone
with my absence, watch skin shrivel, warts grow, wrinkles crease
former sex places (eyes especially). Open borders age me, rage
and boredom, heartland bomb-blasts, but no earthquakes to brag of back home.

And it's one, and I'm sleepy but shouldn't sleep yet --- quiet hour precious,
neighborless, breathless, beery. Brand new CDs keep me company,
last 'til three at least, maybe four, maybe
eight more months, count this down, say "'bye"
to this town, all million sloe-eyed stacked heels (and no soul).

What I miss is kissing ---
you, specifically, your mouth, your hands, your
bravado, cowboy in Switzer ways the Sieferts here would mock.
Where you are, it's "60 degrees and raining on a football night in Texas" ---
Your phone-voice so pure. Here, boys don't wear boots, or open doors, nothing lit,
but still ads for bigger dicks in the Sports pages.

The Truth the Dead Know, and Don't

Whatever minor charm I have, I often intentionally, stubbornly shut off in the face of any scenario that, in my mind, ASKS for me to turn on charm, even when the situation only requires simple human friendliness.

One scene during my college years that I still feel bad about to this day:

1980s: Late night, after club hours, and my dorm-room party friend had delivered us (me and her) to the home of a Middle Eastern guy (grad student) and his friends. (In the '80s in college, I was around a lot of Middle Eastern grad and doctoral students --- they were all thoughtful and intelligent and polite...and very interested in American girls. I liked talking to them, but I wasn't particularly interested in dating or having sex with them. I was still a closeted lesbian and a virgin. My "dorm-room party friend," though, was constantly sleeping with these innocent guys. Since she was my primary partying companion, she often led me into similar situations.)

We all sat in this young man's backyard in a circle, drinking and talking. Then someone brought a puppy out to play... I don't know why, but... I remember initially thinking, like any normal person would: "That puppy is SO cute! I want to pet it!" But instead, I decided mentally to do a stupid "experiment": "I really like that puppy and think it's cute, but what if I give it no reaction at all --- what if I just give it mental good vibes that I like it but don't make any motion to pet it whatsoever..."

Predictably, the puppy ran happily around the circle, stopping to be petted by all of the normal affectionate people... I sat there like a stone, and when the puppy briefly stopped at me, I only stared at it, WILLING my "good feelings" but not making any physical motion toward it... The puppy stared briefly back at me, then ran on to others who were eager to pet a cute puppy.

A man next to me in the circle said quietly, "He doesn't like you." I had no answer for that. I felt ashamed for how I'd acted, for intentionally removing myself from good feelings for no reason.

Later, in 1993, I wrote a poem about what had happened, addressed to Sylvia Plath, and including an incident with my first girlfriend:

The Truth the Dead Know, and Don't

Sylvia, it's not just the truth, the core
that counts, though you knew it was so, and I know.

It's like the time I sat, part of a circle,
with a puppy in the middle, leaping to greet all who called it.
I sat quiet and still, waiting
for it to come to me, for our minds to meet,
although I made no move, trying to prove
my worth in puppy eyes, which would see inside me,
to where I loved it best. A test. And it did not come,
but jumped and ran to each in the circle, one by one,
but not me. And a friend turned and said sadly:
"He doesn't like you."
Where my haughtiness got me:
alone in lieu of dog's blessing, which I wanted
but could not beg.

Or you, what you said, you and Ted
opening the door together, but them
"stepping across me like a mat, straight into his heart."
I know that hate. I know
your pretty face, and smile, and good thoughts,
and I see the happy hope-bud shyly peek and
seek to bloom --- new friends! --- and just as quickly
sicken at the sight of each grin to him and not you,
each fatuous lapping at the steaming dish of fame
promised by the presence of your hunk of man,
the hunk of words defining him.

And I know, too, the two rainbows she and I
saw that day --- driving, driving on the day
that branches fell and I sat pale with fear
as water swelled the streets and my ears
pounded with sounds of rain washing and
my own blood rushing, clutching her thigh as I
muttered "drive, drive," a dash from death.
We pretended to head to the store instead, guided
by the goodness of the sky we chose to see.
And once home, strangely safe: Our neighbor,
until then only a nod over the fence, now
with her notebook and pen in hand, knowing
my love from her last show...oh, their smiles
glowing and false as the two
shimmering strips outshining the sky.

Maybe truth is the last refuge for the uncharming,
uncharmed, unlike the ones smooth enough
to find their own worth
in the wag of a puppy's tail, another's smile, anything a mirror.

As for me and you, no proof will do ---
Only the one Truth --- hard and cool and grand ---
and it towers past time, banishing rainbows,
ignoring their last stand.

Thursday, November 08, 2018

Justice Ginsburg sleeping 2015

Age 81 at Obama's State of the Union address in this 2015 photo. Age 85 today. Should anyone this decrepit have any say whatsoever over our country's policies?

Jim Acosta and Trump

I've been watching Presidential press conferences since I was 4 years old. (I was born in '65; my Democrat mother once told me that when Richard Nixon would come on TV, I would stop playing and sit in front of the TV to watch him.) That said: Jim Acosta is a disrespectful idiot. I've never seen any member of the mainstream press corps act like this. He gets his question, he gets his answer, he gets his follow-up question, and yet... the showboat STILL CANNOT SIT DOWN after his turn. Acosta has been acting like this since 2016, and I think Trump has been VERY patient with his ongoing overt antagonism. Acosta's White House credentials were pulled after his hotdogging in the below clip. And rightly so. CNN should send a more controlled, fair reporter to cover the White House. Acosta has proven that he is incapable of reporting in an unbiased fashion. (I think "unbiased" is still the goal of the press? Is it really?)

Tuesday, November 06, 2018

Bye Bye Beto

Sorry, trust-fund kid, that we all missed out on your NYC "manny," punk band, and drunk-driving skills. (Nice dress, though.)

Friday, November 02, 2018

The Jailer (Sylvia Plath, October 17, 1962)

My night sweats grease his breakfast plate.
The same placard of blue fog is wheeled into position
With the same trees and headstones.
Is that all he can come up with,
The rattler of keys?

I have been drugged and raped.
Seven hours knocked out of my right mind
Into a black sack
Where I relax, foetus or cat,
Lever of his wet dreams.

Something is gone.
My sleeping capsule, my red and blue zeppelin
Drops me from a terrible altitude.
Carapace smashed,
I spread to the beaks of birds.

O little gimlets ---
What holes this papery day is already full of!
He has been burning me with cigarettes,
Pretending I am a negress with pink paws.
I am myself. That is not enough.

The fever trickles and stiffens in my hair.
My ribs show. What have I eaten?
Lies and smiles.
Surely the sky is not that color,
Surely the grass should be rippling.

All day, gluing my church of burnt matchsticks,
I dream of someone else entirely.
And he, for this subversion,
Hurts me, he
With his armor of fakery,

His high cold masks of amnesia.
How did I get here?
Indeterminate criminal,
I die with variety ---
Hung, starved, burned, hooked.

I imagine him
Impotent as distant thunder,
In whose shadow I have eaten my ghost ration.
I wish him dead or away.
That, it seems, is the impossibility.

That being free. What would the dark
Do without fevers to eat?
What would the light
Do without eyes to knife, what would he
Do, do, do without me?

Mystic (Sylvia Plath, February 1, 1963)

The air is a mill of hooks ---
Questions without answer,
Glittering and drunk as flies
Whose kiss stings unbearably
In the fetid wombs of black air under pines in summer.

I remember
The dead smell of sun on wood cabins,
The stiffness of sails, the long salt winding sheets.
Once one has seen God, what is the remedy?
Once one has been seized up

Without a part left over,
Not a toe, not a finger, and used,
Used utterly, in the sun's conflagrations, the stains
That lengthen from ancient cathedrals
What is the remedy?

The pill of the Communion tablet,
The walking beside still water? Memory?
Or picking up the bright pieces
Of Christ in the faces of rodents,
The tame flower-nibblers, the ones

Whose hopes are so low they are comfortable ---
The humpback in his small, washed cottage
Under the spokes of the clematis.
Is there no great love, only tenderness?
Does the sea

Remember the walker upon it?
Meaning leaks from the molecules.
The chimneys of the city breathe, the window sweats,
The children leap in their cots.
The sun blooms, it is a geranium.

The heart has not stopped.

Totem (Sylvia Plath, January 28, 1963)

...Shall the hood of the cobra appall me ---
The loneliness of its eye, the eye of the mountains

Through which the sky eternally threads itself?
The world is blood-hot and personal

Dawn says, with its blood-flush.
There is no terminus, only suitcases

Out of which the same self unfolds like a suit
Bald and shiny, with pockets of wishes,

Notions and tickets, short circuits and folding mirrors.
I am mad, calls the spider, waving its many arms.

And in truth it is terrible,
Multiplied in the eyes of the flies.

They buzz like blue children
In nets of the infinite,

Roped in at the end by the one
Death with its many sticks.

Burning the Letters (Sylvia Plath, August 13, 1962)

...Warm rain greases my hair, extinguishes nothing.
My veins glow like trees.
The dogs are tearing a fox. This is what it is like ---
A red burst and a cry
That splits from its ripped bag and does not stop
With the dead eye
And the stuffed expression, but goes on
Dyeing the air,
Telling the particles of the clouds, the leaves, the water
What immortality is. That it is immortal.

Years (Sylvia Plath, November 16, 1962)

They enter as animals from the outer
Space of holly where spikes
Are not the thoughts I turn on, like a Yogi,
But greenness, darkness so pure
They freeze and are.

O God, I am not like you
In your vacuous black,
Stars stuck all over, bright stupid confetti.
Eternity bored me,
I never wanted it.

What I love is
The piston in motion ---
My soul dies before it.
And the hooves of the horses,
Their merciless churn.

And you, great Stasis ---
What is so great in that!
Is it a tiger this year, this roar at the door?
Is it a Christus,
The awful

God-bit in him
Dying to fly and be done with it?
The blood berries are themselves. They are very still.

The hooves will not have it,
In blue distance the pistons hiss.