A Firefly Swarm, 1 Bean Tree, 1 Bubble Tree, 1 Egg Plant, 1 Gas Plant, 2 Fruit Trees, 1 Spice Plant, and 30 Herb Garden plots.
"I have a bead on your beezer, Roscoe.
Now chuck any packed heat over the rail
pronto and keep your yap zipped." Oh,
how we relish the cheesy noir patois
of the 1940s! - slangy rat-a-tat tirades
slung gung-ho by brassy faro girls
and grifters on the lam: "Take a powder,
oyster-ass!" "Go fuck a duck!"
But quiet is also desirable,
and its sources seduce us equally. Presumably,
the backhills taverns of fourteenth-century China are full
of bawdy ruckus; even so, this fisherman
in Wu Chen's painted album leaf is idly paddling
away from an inkily detailed shore, and toward a space
so blank, so mesmerizingly NOT done - not cloud,
not river, not the faintest wash of any sign
of "world" - that it's both nullity
and embryonic promise at the same time. Not
that the fisherman is on some academic-philosophical quest.
Still, he's paddling, a little drunk,
into the birth and the end of the cosmos.
Halfway to L.A. they stopped the car
on a service road, and let their silence
hammer at them with its message. Seven hundred
miles to go; but for them,
for the marriage, this was the end of the road.
Off in the distance, insect-whirr was louder
than THEY'D been in hours. I said earlier
our vision of Existence bears an "Anthropocentric / taint,"
but of course it's the opposite: WE reenact the UNIVERSE.
"A cosmic ray that travels
at the speed of light ten thousand million years still won't
encounter enough solid matter to cover a two-shilling piece."
That emptiness had come to them, now. Its redshift
and its entropy. And each of them remembered,
for a moment, seven years before: they'd parked the car
at an overlook, where moonlight made a silver,
slithering skin of ocean-ebb below. When the physical pleasure part was done, was drying from their bodies
in the cool night breeze, a peacefulness descended;
and they sat there like that, contented, for hours,
neither of them speaking a word.
Merry Glitchmas Bag Contest Entry ...
... in a bag!
Yep. This bag contains a series of notes comprising Albert Goldbarth's sectional poem "The Cosmology of Empty."
The first is his preface to the poem, a quote attributed to Henry Petroski, and the following notes comprise sections of the poem itself. When read in sequence, I find the work's conceit dizzyingly lovely. I hope you will, too.
For more far-out, labrynthine, and deeply (sometimes bitter-) sweet mind candy, check out Albert Goldbarth's compilation "Combinations of The Universe."
this was entirely empty when I came by, i planted some to fill in the gaps
History behind Strawberry seed
EgIantine left you 1 Spoiled Strawberry Seed and told me to tell you: WOW, thank you for the building permit! I'm adding you tothe list of museum benefactors! Love your tower too <3 (7:00 pm, 71st of Fever, year 23).
Awesome stews will be refilled soon
Leave your name with the butler please and I will let you know asap
Herb Route Diaries
Something is happening. My skin is changing color. It's becoming a very lovely shade of purple. That's not all though...I feel myself changing. The haze told me this is normal. That I am not changing...just becoming. I worry, but he tells me it's all right. Everything will be fine.
Dropped off stuff from your collectors.
Miss you dreadfully and I hope you're ok.
Bought an awesome stew. Nice price :D
Two fish are in a tank. One turns to the other and says: "You man the guns while I drive."
A VERY FUNNY JOKE
Q: WHERE DOES THE KING KEEP HIS ARMIES?
A: IN HIS SLEEVIES.