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Ruby The Rabbitfoot
One more Daisy May
and a bloke on the
piannerHigh Windows
by Philip LarkinWhen I see a couple of kids
And guess he’s fucking her and she’s
Taking pills or wearing a diaphragm,
I know this is paradiseEveryone old has dreamed of all their lives—
Bonds and gestures pushed to one side
Like an outdated combine harvester,
And everyone young going down the long slideTo happiness, endlessly. I wonder if
Anyone looked at me, forty years back,
And thought, That’ll be the life;
No God any more, or sweating in the darkAbout hell and that, or having to hide
What you think of the priest. He
And his lot will all go down the long slide
Like free bloody birds. And immediatelyRather than words comes the thought of high windows:
The sun-comprehending glass,
And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows
Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.Transcendentalism
by Lucia PerilloThe professor stabbed his chest with his hands curled like forks
before coughing up the question
that had dogged him since he first read Emerson:
Why am I “I”? Like musk oxen we hunkered
while his lecture drifted against us like snow.
If we could, we would have turned our backs into the wind.I felt bad about his class’s being such a snoozefest, though peaceful too,
a quiet little interlude from everyone outside
rooting up the corpse of literature
for being too Caucasian. There was a simple answer
to my own question (how come no one loved me,
stomping on the pedals of my little bicycle):I was insufferable. So, too, was Emerson I bet,
though I liked If the red slayer think he slays—
the professor drew a giant eyeball to depict the Over-soul.
Then he read a chapter from his own book:
naptime.
He didn’t care if our heads tipped forward on their stalks.When spring came, he even threw us a picnic in his yard
where dogwood bloomed despite a few last
dirty bergs of snow. He was a wounded animal
being chased across the tundra by those wolves,
the postmodernists. At any moment
you expected to see blood come dripping through his clothes.And I am I who never understood his question,
though he let me climb to take a seat
aboard the wooden scow he’d been building in the shade
of thirty-odd years. How I ever rowed it
from his yard, into my life—remains a mystery.
The work is hard because the eyeball’s heavy, riding in the bow.
~
~Lucia Perillo, “Transcendentalism” from Inseminating the Elephant.
Copyright © 2009 by Lucia Perillo.Keeps on surprising …
The Rolling Stones —You Can’t Always Get What You Want
(Choir of Trinity Wall Street)(Newark, 2012)Dylan’s Buckets of Rain from 1975
by Neko Case live in Austin 2003I ain’t no monkey but I know what I like
I want her hair
don’t care what anyone says, I Love thisSweet Daddy
by Patricia Smith62. You would have been 62.
I would have given you a Rooselvelt Road
kinda time, an all-night jam in a
twine time joint, where you could have
taken over the mike
and crooned a couple.The place be all blue light
and JB air
and big-legged women
giggling at the way
you spit tobacco into the sound system,
showing up some dime-store howler
with his pink car
pulled right up to the door outside.You would have been 62.
And the smoke would have bounced
right off the top of your head,
like good preachin’.
I can see you now,
twirling those thin hips,
growling ’bout if it wasn’t for bad luck
you wouldn’t have no luck at all.
I said,
wasn’t for bad luck,
no luck at all.Nobody ever accused you
of walking the paradise line.
You could suck Luckies
and line your mind with rubbing alcohol
if that’s what the night called for,
but Lord, you could cry foul
while B.B. growled Lucille from the jukebox;
you could dance like killing roaches
and kiss the downsouth ladies
on fatback mouths. Ooooweee, they’d say,
that sweet man sho’ know how deep my well goes.
And I bet you did, daddy,
I bet you did.But hey, here’s to just another number.
To a man who wrote poems on the back
of cocktail napkins and brought them home
to his daughter who’d written her rhymes
under blankets.
Here’s to a strain on the caseload.
Here’s to the fat bullet
that left its warm chamber
to find you.
Here’s to the miracles
that spilled from your head
and melted into the air
like jazz.The carpet had to be destroyed.
And your collected works
on aging, yellowed twists of napkin
can’t bring you back.
B.B. wail and blue Lucille
can’t bring you back.
A daughter who grew to write screams
can’t bring you back.But a room
just like this one,
which suddenly seems to fill
with the dread odors of whiskey and smoke,
can bring you here
as close as my breathing.But the moment is hollow.
It stinks.
It stinks sweet.has a sharp hook like a cats claw
(the vidjo is dodgy and the live
is slower- so here’s the studio versionCats on Trees – Please x3
Ooh La La – a 1973 song by The Faces,
written by Ronnie Lane and Ronnie WoodI wish that I knew what I know now
When I was youngerRedbird – Ooh La La
W.B Yeats wrote this sonnet in 1887 when he was 22.
It was published in the Irish Monthly in September
and was included in a larger piece, The Wanderings of Oisin
which he completed the same year; and he was still known
as Willie Yeats.She who dwelt among the sycamores
W.B. YeatsA little boy outside the sycamore wood
Saw on the wood’s edge gleam an ash grey feather;
A kid, held by one soft white ear for teather
Trotted beside him in a playful mood
A little boy inside the sycamore wood.
Followed a ringdove’s ash-grey gleam of feather;
Noon wrapt the trees in veils of violet weather,
And on tip-toe the winds a whispering stood.
Deep in the woodland pause they, the six feet,
Lapped in the lemon daffodils; a bee
In the long grass – four eyes drooping low – a seat
Of moss, a maiden weaving. Singeth she
“I am love Lady Quietness, my sweet,
And on this loom I weave thy destiny”.Screw you Spotify
.
Neil Young … -
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