Poetry | Short Fiction | Blogging | Photography
Light particles already waved their goodbye as apparent effects when they entered the eye See the studious chaps when the functions collapse asking who, what and where, also why Probability means what it means when it does but cannot when it probably doesn't Does not at all mean the experiment seen was such, when it probably wasn't
The space bar keeps the words apart
as if they want to fight
but if they ran together all
it wouldn’t be quite right.
A little space is what we need
for us to get along
a little time to catch our breath
correct me if I’m wrong.
So let me tell you this one thing
my lips upon your ear
let’s enjoy ourselves apart
for six months, no a year.
To this she said a decade
would hardly be enough
and gathered all her things in arm
and left in quite the huff.
I said I didn’t mean it
but she’d gone and hadn’t heard
now my space bar mocks me
at the end of every word.
Well now I’ve gone and done it
to deny it would be wrong
I went and done wrote lyrics
to a goofy country song.
A Word Apart originally appeared here October 5th, 2016.
Here’s some photos from a brief visit to the Houston Arboretum & Nature Center, and a few around the Hive, all taken in the last week of July, 2020. My latest obsession is the High Pass filter which, when abused, gives that smokey, dreamy look. Both bird photos taken at home. At the nature center I saw no birds at all, as in none.
it's nice when things are smooth to touch our fingers like this very much and good when walkways claw and grip our feet don't like it when we slip especially when we're way up high as we could fall and maybe die before we've had a chance to mend our evil ways: we meet our end
Behold the wheel as motion incarnate. Inventor of the metaphor. Roundation is its pride, spokes the whispering of its ministers, its axle the secret grief. Turning until the grease dries up, then burning.
A mechanism, its gears a-turning. In thinking, wheels turning, turning. Spheres of influence, around, around. Circles have no need of ground. Sanskrit chakra has a sound like wheels knocking cobbled lanes. Strike and clap again, again. The arc, a portion of the round, its back is bent. It makes no sound.
The curve that sneaks in fluidly all paths and motions, blunts the angle, rounds the bend, transcribes the swing. It does its thing. It snugs the rim of hat and crown. Same as same when upside down! Once gone, just wait, it comes around.
Self, the center of conception, the spokes relate in rays the scenes. The never was but could have beens. What comes around, will go around, in startless parts, no stops or starts. It turns upon its secret grief. The axle happy in its grease. How does it make its way, by feel?
The ship, it has a steering wheel.
Here’s a little protest ditty in honor of the Federal forces invading Portland, and the armed MAGAs who cheer them on. May you all be arrested, detained, and prosecuted to the full extent of the law, if there’s anything left of it when Barr & Co. complete their project. (The cadence is the same as a boot camp drill sergeant’s call-and-response song.)
Fascist boot-heels come on down
the dread antifa's in our town
Follow this psychotic clown
you can't tell up from fuckin' down
Fascist traitors you're in luck
folks down here is dumb as fuck
They clutch their guns and cry in fear
dressed up in their combat gear
They see Dumbo spouting lies
about the libtards they despise
And realize 'he thinks like me'
there is no shame in hatred, see
Just tell'em it's okay to hate
you bring your torch and don't be late
We'll burn a cross and knock some heads
come on down and join the Feds
The unmarked cops will cast a net
and disappear some bums, you bet
You'll know that it can happen here
when jackboot troopers club your ear
Forget your daddy fought a war
to stop them nazis ever more
Now the nazis run the place
you cheer them on in all disgrace
The framers they can't help us now
they weren't all-knowing anyhow
Quote us now some Thomas Paine
while it's all twirling down the drain
We'll fix it come election day
unless they figure out a way
To thwart the People's will, at last
and disappear the vote you cast
Fascist boot-heels come on down
the dread antifa's in our town
There is no time to fool around
you don't know up from fuckin' down
Birding can be difficult to understand for the uninitiated. I have many times spoken excitedly with coworkers about a bird I’d seen that morning and sensed that they were feigning interest while quietly wishing I’d just hurry up and finish my story. (I do the same thing when people talk excitedly about their favorite team winning a game.) If you haven’t made the connection yourself, it is hard to see what the fuss is about.
There are two main types of birding: planned and unplanned. Unplanned is the best—it’s like getting an unexpected bonus. A third kind is a blend of the two, just noticing local bird-life as you go about your day, the no-big-deal birds because you see them all the time. This is still birding, but not the kind you write home about. So between the three, we are always either birding, or ready to be birding on short notice. Sometimes we eat and get some sleep.
I was taking a small bag of garbage out to the receptacle on the street the other morning and noticed a bird, startled by my presence, flush from the ground in the empty lot across the street. The lot there is cleared for new construction and I see doves, pigeons, and sparrows there all the time, but this bird was bigger so I stopped and focused. It was a hawk of some kind, with prey in its grip, flying straight into our property.
I went back in the gate and looked around, but could not spot it. Then a few minutes later I heard the Blue Jays start squawking and crying. This is reliable hawk-alert behavior for jays. They hate raptors and are fearless in their efforts to expel them from their territory. They will scream and dive-bomb a hawk until it gets fed up and leaves. This I have seen many times now. So I followed the noise and located the bird, halfway up an oak, perched on a thick branch and dining on its prey. I could see the striped tail and for sure had a Cooper’s Hawk up there.
This tree happens to be located next to the apartment building so I grabbed my camera and headed to the rooftop with the intention of sneaking up and getting a photo. There’s plenty of foliage between myself and the oak up there, but I did find a gap that afforded a nice view, without the hawk noticing me. The above photo is the result.
I watched for a while as the jays kept at it, the hawk ignoring them and picking away it is victim. I could not see what unlucky bird it was, but statistically most likely a White-winged Dove, the most plentiful hawk prey around here.
So there you have it: I was minding my own business, doing a mundane chore, and all of a sudden I’m birding. I know what you’re thinking and you are right: we birders are all nuts. What we do borders on the sort of compulsive behavior that some would think needs treatment. Maybe so, but as maladies go this one is pretty enjoyable.
The light that we see by provisioned as much by sight as by a persistent radiance Has little angels dancing on the heads of all its little pins Seeking always the refraction that fans it all out into rainbows How is this different from visions of the Blessed Virgin Appearing again, and again in unexpected places to the solace of the faithful The wonder of the crowds and expectation of the Absolute
Our garden scarecrow, whom I have named Malcolm Eubanks, has masked up. Malcolm used to work in a department store, modeling fashionable clothing for would-be buyers. Now, his hollow head is being scoped out as a possible nest location by a pair of Carolina Wren. Such is the trajectory of our lives. But you should have seen him in his day. No one could make a pair of Dockers and a cardigan look more desirable. He had the gift.
