The world sometimes is a big wet dog shaking itself, the wag of trees,
the slobber of clouds. The little bark of bad news, of illness. We wanted to push it
off our lap, command it to sit, to stay. Obey, obey.
It should also be illegal for young persons to be present either at iambics or comedies before they are arrived at that age when they are allowed to partake of the pleasures of the table
for a city is a number of people not accidentally met together, but with a purpose of ensuring to themselves sufficient independency and self-protection
for those who are to have the management of public affairs ought always to be chosen out of the better sort of the people.
A fern, pressed in the pages of The Metal and the Flower by P. K. Page, between “Man with One Small Hand” and “Portrait of Marina”. Best library/secondhand book ephemera yet.
She can’t see them,
on painting my hills
in shades of British green.
They’re everything but! I snap
Try purple! Try yellow! Try red!
She’s drenched in green,
bewitched by it. Her eyes
drip curtains of tree colour.
When I am being kind, I think
she’s either blind
Kate Braid, Inward to the Bones, a collection of poems which takes the fact of a meeting between Georgia O’Keeffe and Emily Carr and turns it into a whole adventure where they visit, and paint, the two places most important to them both: New Mexico and British Columbia.
I don’t wear gratitude
well. Or hats.
sir richard manuel died a lousy death hanging there cold as a fish
I can’t explain it just listen to any of his songs just listen to how pure and sad a man’s voice can be when he wants paradise but his arms aren’t long enough
some voices belong to everyone
wallpaper torn dishes underfoot I want the walls down but I know I’ll need them
I have watched
the city from a distance at night
and wondered why I wrote no poem.