Thursday, July 10, 2008
OK, now he's just fucking with my liver and going na-na-na-na-boo-boo I can give you cirrhosis and there's nothing you can do about it.
Sweet Mother of the Gods, where's that gallon jar of olives, that tablespoon of vermouth, and that truckload of Stoli?
Picture found here.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
I had dinner with two of my very dearest friends in the whole world last night and I remembered just how liberating it is to sit and talk with the people who really understand you, who provide you with endless reasons to admire them, who will call your name at Samhein when you are gone. Once, in my wicked youth and childhood, I must have done something good.
At one point, we got to talking about: Where would you travel to if money and time were no object? Both E and S are better travelers than I, and they both had lists of more exotic places than I have. With my moon in Taurus, which S kept insisting was no excuse for me, I like to stay home, living my well-ordered life, among my lovely things. But if money were no object, which, I admit, can make travel much more palatable, there are two places that I'd like to go to before I die.
I'd like to be in Sweden, home of my maternal ancestors, on Litha, when the sun shines all day and all night long and people hop in boats to go across the water to Denmark to buy beer, when they go to small cottages in the mosquito-infested woods and entertain their neighbors.
And, I'd like, in deep midst of deepest winter, to see the Aurora Borealis when the dancing sky is at its peak, which apparently happens every 17 years.
Where would you go, if you could go first class, if money and time were no object, if the urge to travel overtook your love of staying home, tending your garden, drinking a cup of tea?
FISA - Surveillance State Enhancements Act
Clinton - NO
Obama - YES.
I believe this calls for a poem.
e.e. cummings - Buffalo Bill's
who used to
ride a watersmooth-silver
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
he was a handsome man
and what i want to know is
how do you like your blueeyed boy
I admit that I am surprised. I expected Hillary to vote as he voted, in order to show that she's supporting him, in an effort to get him to continue to pay off her campaign debt. Instead, as she so often, although not always, does, she did the right thing.
But she was shrill. She cackled. She was a "ball-buster." Marc Penn! The announcer in her commercials sounded too much like an announcer! She said, "Not as far as I know" the fourth time she was asked if Obama was a Moslem! She's likeable enough! People were "just more comfortable" with him.
In reality, she had a vagina.
/with apologies to Eugene Fields
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
The Lightest Touch
Good poetry begins with
the lightest touch,
a breeze arriving from nowhere,
a whispered healing arrival,
a word in your ear,
a settling into things,
then like a hand in the dark
it arrests the whole body,
steeling you for revelation.
In the silence that follows
a great line
you can feel Lazarus
even the laziest, most deathly afraid
part of you,
lift up his hands and walk toward the light.
-- David Whyte
from Everything is Waiting for You
©2003 Many Rivers Press
Image found here.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Sunday, July 06, 2008
And gentlemen in England now abed shall think themselves accursed they were not here and hold their manhoods cheap whilst any speaks that fought with us upon St. Crispin's Day.
We are but warriors for the working day.
Of course, Digby.