Poetry moment

The Sleeping Hollow of His Face WIll Be the Straight Pass of Surrendering
by Lucie Brock-Broido

One day he wakened from
His Winterstunde of dying,

To the most gold rustling
Of impending end, from

His own head & was,
He said, to be quit

Of reading books & ever
More. A death is portable

Like an abandon,
You can take it anywhere,

A provenance of haemoglobins
& some fate. And from that

Tourneying, that day,
There would be nothing

More to crave & nothing
More to set the heart on,

No cumulus of knowing,
No rubricant of pulse.

Even I know this--
The eventual caesura

Of the hoarding in the sweet
Conservatory of his head.

And then nothing
& then nothing more.

and I'm off

See you from New Orleans.

Voice Post: Phoenix Rising, pt. 1

(no subject)

Hey.
So I'm a little les deaf now.

New Orleans remains what it always was since long before Katrina -- a city of the dead, just now with billboards that say "Free House Demolition With Purchase of Insurance."

I am Snapely and exhausted.