Blogging from Asheville, NC circa Feb. 2003, when we were dorks.
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mmmcs.us
friendistan.org
invokeyourself.org
Even in absurdity, sacrament.
Even in hardship, holiness.
Even in doubt,
faith.
Even in chaos,
realization.
Even in paradox,
blessedness.
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Tue 03 Mar 15
The Way An Atom Knows
Poet's Block is a subtype of the diagnosis Writer's Block. It's a qualitative thing. While the blocks break similarly, through some existential circumstance, Poet's Block usually reverses by having a condition of mediocrity slapped the shit out of it by Reality (or local variants).
Oh, Universe, you and I apparently have tall orders of each other,
stepping into ourselves like this.
I can’t imagine the things on your to-do list, and yet my necessities to complete
not only known to you, they are the ever-doing you.
Yes I have facts and figures to consider, hearts and souls, compatriots and perceptions
which weigh in those brass scales to which we ascribe decision.
To You, any of this is just orbit, just an orrery spinning eternal on the mantle of a vast library window
and palpitations over human desires are just turns of the arc, a cast shadow
that knows years the way an atom knows oceans- we are each other yet you will master me.
Daily, I agree to an illusion and become subdivided by “time,” and the obligations I sign in invisible ink.
We look at ourselves in mirrors and agree to the lie that the reflection is us, yet know in true
the obverse is the one staring back, an otherness we practice speeches with
yet the gravity of each yes and no we utter ill compares to the vastness of cold infertility of true dark;
nor the fecund yes of billion year star-sex, giving nubile planets a first spin.
No artifice here; this is just a cluttered house with cats and a lone man clutching at portent
and promises, trying to catch nebula on his tongue and find
the checkmark in his DNA that says “you've done well enough- the Earth is spinning-
is that not reason enough for you
to know our work is done by losing the bullshit, so we can dance together?”filed under: from the birdy's beak blogged: 23.11 Tue, 03 Mar '15
Wed 04 Feb 15
A whirlwind's a comin' - a sampler platter
(And, a quiet 12th birthday to one of Asheville's longest running- if spottily maintained- blogs! Yesterday marked 2003-2015).
If bullshit is stored and processed properly, it makes great fertilizer. Which immensely befuddles the bullshitter.
— moonbird (@moonbird) January 31, 2015
filed under: from the birdy's beak blogged: 19.23 Wed, 04 Feb '15
Wed 28 Jan 15
Cars- what did I do to you in a past life? Demolition derby driver?
Post by Jay Joslin.filed under: from the birdy's beak blogged: 22.40 Wed, 28 Jan '15
Mon 26 Jan 15
Emissions from the little white box
Russia's criminal violence in Crimea serves to remind justice loving people of their convictions & to rally against barbarism #IamMariupol
— moonbird (@moonbird) January 27, 2015
Dear Atlanta: Your roads. Whatthefuckyouthinkin???? I mean really. #beyondthunderdomepeachstate
— moonbird (@moonbird) January 27, 2015
filed under: from the birdy's beak blogged: 23.38 Mon, 26 Jan '15
Wed 21 Jan 15
Elf/punk/geek/chic
filed under: from the birdy's beak blogged: 20.31 Wed, 21 Jan '15
Tue 20 Jan 15
Robot Politicians
ZORGmyGORG #SenJoniErnst sounds exactly like a text to speech program- little more than software executing code. #robotpoliticians #sotu
— moonbird (@moonbird) January 21, 2015filed under: from the birdy's beak blogged: 22.37 Tue, 20 Jan '15
Tue 20 Jan 15
Testing Storify/Instagram Embed
filed under: from the birdy's beak blogged: 00.59 Tue, 20 Jan '15
Tue 20 Jan 15
Testing Facebook Embed
Post by Jay Joslin.filed under: from the birdy's beak blogged: 00.56 Tue, 20 Jan '15
Tue 20 Jan 15
Testing Storify/Twitter Embed Again
filed under: from the birdy's beak blogged: 00.44 Tue, 20 Jan '15
Mon 08 Sep 14
Dustdevil
Dustdevil
This is the month of any-which-way winds
Thunder squalls here, dry flame-fed gusts there,
The final chants of summer of cicada
The frantically thrown together party
Only for rain to tease or heat to wear down.It was a drought year- bad one- that I saw my first dustdevil- five years old.
Five- a cusp of age when magic meant something more than a cartoon sparkles
And fearlessness still drove me across fences and adults calling after mattered none.
It was the kind of heat lemonade couldn’t touch- maybe a breeze from September taunted it,
And before my eyes, twenty, thirty feet, as upward as my eyes could go the dustdevil shot,
Taking with it parking lot dirt, the hiss of dry grass clippings, maybe some plastic,
And I ran into the middle of it, whoever they were running after me,
But I had to be in the center of that living swirl of tussling winds.
Dust stung my eyes but I didn’t care- my young mouth
Ate dirt but I didn’t care- because I got to be in that
Vortex before it dissipated into nameless wind
And saliva-wetted napkins with stern voices
“You should never…” “you should never”
Trying to wipe away the time I looked up
And saw the whirling mass leading to Infinity
All the while, made of nothing, not even time.This summer I saw some steam making pillars
Off a pool where such an unlikely collection of us
Were skinny-dipping; people as random as dustdevil jetsam.
I tried to swim to them, the pillars disappeared, I don’t think anyone else saw.
This summer a few storms came through that were cyclonic and rotating, and we’re told to run in fear,
I just took photographs, trying to get back to that child’s upturned eye, never making it.
In the anticlimax of a vortex’s sudden conclusion of dancing, I find myself much like
The particles that fall to the ground, crazy-made and landing anywhere.
Sometimes, the placement is perfect, I am content with the outcome
Of all that spinning and air-jazz, yet also repeating to myself the
Mantra that I’m always where I’m supposed to be, finding
Opposition to the crude landing, isolation among the
Crowd of other lost and wandering bits, looking for
My place of origin, my heap of whatever-
Merely detritus among detritus,
Not my own, dustdevil come
Back and wind me ‘round.Sand is pulverized
From much larger sources.
We are all grains, fine, fine grains.
We can be picked us and funneled at any minute.
Upon the plain of a high desert or in a suburb puckered in drought.
I’m sand, a tip of a dead dry leaf, a dandelion seed, some folded note never read
Spiraled up, whirled, let down; and so are you, so are we all, looking for either our source
Or comradery among the motley scraps- I’ll take either, or a little of both, just something that gives
Purpose to the crazy weather that gives flight if only for seconds and without control.
Or I’ll take being that kid again, running from my protectors, hurtling toward
Certain danger, which was little more than a dirty face, so I can seize a
Second of bafflement at the swarm of us, a tornado of circumstance,
Gazing through the body of a dustdevil, being the sum of the dust,
Finding nothing devilish in the dance that creates, destroys,
Compels the future stirrings of little running boys.
filed under: from the birdy's beak blogged: 22.29 Mon, 08 Sep '14
"Aut Viam Inveniam, Aut Faciam." - Seneca