Come inside and rest awhile...
Sit with text by cold screenlight...
Grab a drink, click a link...
Let me know what you think...
A budding blog and halfway-house for travellers with eyes for skies like Novalis to stop a while and gaze at stardust.
regard, a house of trees--
each, un.der.ground, an ancestry;
or, autoerotic requiem.
now and then,
(pretend) they
might gaze across the aisle
and see another.
profligate panegyric
or rabble only
can they call
a peer.
laurel and redress appear.
no citizens here.
a play of string
lace?
a clasp?
thread count and flesh
interlace,
hands clasp.
a pluck, a coo,
a pitch and fall
struck a coup
when two stood tall.
Tonight I heard
a messy conversation.
I understood
the locutors' frustration.
They were gathered
in the parlor by the fire,
their faces all
lit up by cell phone screen light.
Of the people,
for the people, by them-- but,
(their contention:)
the masses are unthinking,
unkind, and too
often xenophobic. Is
this really it?
The experiment's results?
One said: "We need
small government, with little
interference
in the broader public, for
I believe that
any institution will
grow like that old
King, Creon, should valliant
hero, Haemon,
get a chance to live for long.
Decadence is
inevitable in all
attempts at an
ethical statesman's practice.
Common ground can
only be found underground--
for the basic
necessity to practice
Democracy
is to raise some violent will
of some set of
people over many sets
of other groups
of people's rights to their own
belonging in
the public, or practicing
their own rites, like
bumping bodies with the same
sex, or being
trans-gender, or getting to
participate
as citizen, and not just
as some queer flesh"
And then his friend began: "You
can't throw out the
baby with the bathwater.
The 'America
Experiment' is still in
its infancy.
Democracy does require--,
yes,-- denial
of some people's rights to life.
So long as the
limits of our state's subjects'
capacities
for imaginaries is
relegated
to conceiving that contrived
notion-- that for
their world to stand, another's
world, for being
different, must be torn down,
for it threatens
the laws of their concrete world--,
so long as that
limits imaginaries,
Democracy
will repeat Creon's mistakes.
Don't let them make
a fool of you-- Novalis,
Schelling, and friends.
Antigone's death is not
a happy end.
Sousanis asks: Who do you
elect as your
representative? is it
politicians?
Or is it your own conduct?
Who will you choose
as your imaginary's
author? Yourself?
Your community? Which one?
And what will it
take to reforge such basic gods
as our public's
imaginaries' limits?
She swaths in,
a swatch of stardust
drooping off her wrist,
and takes a seat.
"What will it be?"
says the barkeeper.
"Anything," sighs
our darling dreamer.
She pulls out
a pen and notepad.
Symphonic scritches
of a nib
dissolve all her
social awareness,
and the moments pass.
This remains:
"Weep, Muses, weep.
The sound of scratching beckons
Memory,
cold as rain that seeps into your
bare bones,
and gets your socks wet.
Loose your tears to droop
like nectarines
from above--
cry, for something has been lost
that may well
never come
again.
Oh, say, dear sorrow-singers,
why this melodrama?
Why does the heart yearn for such redress as
simple comfort
and safe company?
I can't be the only one
who fears the night,
not out of fearing the dark,
but of fear from the absence of
the darling one.
Break, heart.
A cuisle agrah mo chroide
is run into the Night.
Weep, weep."
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