Upon wing of blue

May the place be yours
where light leads your way
upon softer landing
upon wing of blue.

RIP

Cotton Rd

My story does not stop at the Red Lion. It meanders

like a river on a day less restless than others.

A ship of marooned memory slips quietly, unexpected

harvest. Parisian clock pauses, breaks down.

It purports not the easiest but smaller slice of orange

stings less tart than piss-reeks of pretense.

Meringue vies with pansies blue and yellow, a scale

2high 2hard. P'haps we met on Cotton Rd?

She will cry a gentle cry, plucked from comfort, made

to join this world. Her eyes are gifted open.

Fingers clasping, seeking. Babe o' rose, welcomed be.

Fearless 'fore trod so many and so shall we.

Stranger, bear one cup with me. Your warmth quite felt

and silence, too. Tripled wishes, open check.

Door's ajar, the soil is turned. Renewal for a songbird.

I tune again, my strings turn taut: vox-pledge.

The Hypocrisy Of It All --- by Meryl L. Streep

“I no longer have patience for certain things, not because I’ve become arrogant, but simply because I reached a point in my life where I do not want to waste more time with what displeases me or hurts me. I have no patience for cynicism, excessive criticism and demands of any nature. I lost the will to please those who do not like me, to love those who do not love me and to smile at those who do not want to smile at me.

I no longer spend a single minute on those who lie or want to manipulate. I decided not to coexist anymore with pretense, hypocrisy, dishonesty and cheap praise. I do not tolerate selective erudition nor academic arrogance. I do not adjust either to popular gossiping. I hate conflict and comparisons. I believe in a world of opposites and that’s why I avoid people with rigid and inflexible personalities. In friendship I dislike the lack of loyalty and betrayal. I do not get along with those who do not know how to give a compliment or a word of encouragement. Exaggerations bore me and I have difficulty accepting those who do not like animals. And on top of everything I have no patience for anyone who does not deserve my patience.”

(Um.. hurt to patch or clip wings)

When the light leaves...

Is it shining now?

Yes, there is light. Over there, on the wall.

What I see, I believe.

Right.

It is setting, a beautiful blaze.

For sure.

She, an entrancing picture, on the pier.

Gazing ahead. Dreaming no dreams.

---- and I fall awake again, who....

Grotesque figures dance in the shadows.

Fright gives way to new names in the hovel.

We can't scrub it away. It won't leave.

Heavy steps in long coats.

It seems always so dark, always.

When the light leaves again, my eye falls.

A strange rain, and buildings shift.

Some rise from the ground, like plastic toffee towers.

Who am I today?

I can't recall where I used to walk.

I know there's soft sand somewhere.

My feet has its own memory.

I give in.

Go Set A Watchman - Harper Lee

“The only thing I’m afraid of about this country is that its government will someday become so monstrous that the smallest person in it will be trampled underfoot, and then it wouldn’t be worth living in.” 


“Prejudice, a dirty word, and faith, a clean one, have something in common: they both begin where reason ends.” 



“What does a bigot do when he meets someone who challenges his opinions? He doesn’t give. He stays rigid. Doesn’t even try to listen, just lashes out.” 


Atticus Finch: "Gentlemen, if there one slogan in this world I believe, it is this: equal rights for all, special privileges for none."




http://www.theglobeandmail.com/opinion/editorials/when-an-athlete-protests-by-sitting-out-the-anthem/article31800686/comments/

Lachrymal Humidities ---- by JOHN GODFREY

in memory of Ted Berrigan

Lose a brother? Lose a pa? At the sound of the tone it will be exactly

sayonara. Meet me in the lobby of Casa Purgatoria when it's Turkish

bath hour.  We will sweat  out  whatever  the  fuck it is that's unclean

and inside us, at least inside me.  Round and brown and getting cool.

Vestigal  feeling in the monkey I cut off myself.  Having  stood beside

the  catafalque  to  nominte  him for  heroism I did not expect a nom-

ination  for  tragedy  to be so rapidly forthcoming. You saw as well as

I  did  how  the  hot  afternoon  was  grateful  to  him for bequeathing

himself  to  its  mysterious  finitude.  Dry  and  bright and breezy and

the hours were honey.  The shadow of a fully leafed-out tree over our

white  knuckles.  I  would  have  liked  to  have been holding beads to

show how humble  and elated I felt.  I talked of farce as if it were life.

Life itself seemed  more than ever  high hips in a  form-fitting sheath.

I  can  be  restfully  subdued  by  the  sight  of  long  undulant  fingers,

please  let  me  show you  my entire body!  Every time  you see me re-

call  my  neck  sinews,  my  piano-string  forearm  tendons,  my pneu-

matic  sexual flesh,  and  my mild and erotic  eyeballs—forget the shy-

ness  about me  that  you can't understand.  You can easily read in my 

eyes  how  voluntary  my  fantasies are,  and how flattering they are to

you. Body. B-o-d-y.  Ah, the bruises.  Later for laying flowers, says the

body.  O  body,  O  tough  stuff,  O  body  capable of sleep.  I break  the

shaft  of  my  spear  over  my  knee  and kiss a patch of concrete.  Then

from  hands  and  knees  I rise  to my full height.