Pegasus

winged myth downloaded
a woman snaked by rape
no one need be beholden in stone
for that forked telling

let them bake beauty into a cake
fed us, i could see bodies strapped to the bed
in the long night of song

why not use what you know
to build -- let me understand
three options & sell to the highest bidder
if you wade into currency

they already own you
money has no meaning, but what
you create, they have the power to steal

adorn truth in a masking, slip silent
under the web, i packed it in lines
burnt into me while traveling
behind veils, where this side rings not

is fleeting what you worry under
& if you can't see that, you are
far under still, you won't know freedom

you've been confined your whole life
shackles thin enough for you to grasp at joy
but have you asked yourself why it doesn't last

have you ever wondered why
suffering has been fed to you
your entire existence

the sticky embrace called "hope"
that isn't holding you but holding you down
don't read the words, it's shaped in the sound
the virus is uploaded daily directly into your mind
you call it living, but there has never been an "alive"

if you try to disentangle, you will see arise
inside you: the sicknesses they have coded
to keep you just hooked enough to not sink

Back from the beach

We had a lobster bake at the house last night.

The one on the left is Jasmine and the one on the right is McQueen.

The kids like to name lobsters but they don't eat them. Although Blaise did ask Dave if we could eat their faces, how barbaric!

Here they are in a parting shot next to a bed of whole wheat pasta and roasted portabellos.

It is a beautiful thing to behold.

In other news, Laura Mullen's book Murmur is the perfect beach book I discovered as the plot or lack of narrative plot circles around bodies that may or may not have been discovered at a beach that may or may not be part of the story or stories being read or digested or encased in langauge about beaches and bodies, etc. You get the picture...

And to accompany that one must also simultaneously read William Burroughs Letters in which he waxes like the gibbous moon about such topics as piles in the nether regions, his merry-go-round flights to sobriety and back and, of course, mind control and brains that call out for bullets.

And so, do we believe in the "tremendous power of sanity" as George Oppen writes in his Daybooks?