Archive for March, 2018

Water under the bridge, the new old wall, and the green grass grows.

That’s water at the top, running under the bridge,
but the bridge hosts a rock festooned with cinnamon lichen.

All that black plastic was a weed barrier
stretched over the bank, temporarily, 30 years ago.
It ripped as time went by,
blew apart, got brittle
while we pondered on the wall we wanted to watch
from the kitchen window
instead of the unstable bank rank with weedy stuff.

In December just past,
a mason began the real work
and three decades vanished in three months
despite dodging the dodgy snows and freezy rains
that have marked our ascent, this year, into spring.

A solid as rocks, the bottom grew up
to a shelf all the way across
with a backing and the beginning of terraced beds.

For spring and birthday and Easter
and a place in one of those beds
a calla lily waits out our most recent freeze.

The plastic, meanwhile, ripped away in minutes,
the rocks set, the beds turned down,
and plant chocolates placed on the pillowed ground.

It’s a matter of mulch, now, and compost, and setting out plants.

Most of the rocks came from the mud-daubed chimney,
a hundred years old when we took it down,
rock by rock, passed hand to hand,
out of the very center of the house,
and piled it, 40 years ago,
a careful heap, become a mine
of flat and stackable native stone.

But a dozen of the stones
are hunks of crystal quartz harvested
from the branch
worked in just for magic.

Meanwhile, the unruly grass rises everywhere
not impressed by late frosts
or a little dusting of April snow.

Ah, but the mower has a new 135″ belt
and I a new shoulder.
We shall prevail,
for one more year.
in one more month.

The axes of political love. And hate.

At first glance there wasn’t much to engage with.
or to care about.

You will have to click on the image to enlarge it
unless your eyes are far better than mine
— possibly in another tab to keep on reading.

Democrats on average like Pelosi and Obama;
Republicans are still fond of Mitt Romney;
nobody doesn’t like nurses.

Quelle suprise.

Belatedly, my two-dimensional sight cut in.

Democrats, in blue below the diagonal, do like Pelosi: well, a 6.5/10 level of like.
Republicans at the same time do quite hate her, 1.5/10 worth.

NRA gets 2.5 from Democrats (really?)
and 7.25 from Republicans.

It’s the political brain of the United States on one chart
pulsating and burbling while you watch.
I’d like to see a few hundred more data points,
but I’m not sure what would become of my own brain.

Thanks to Larry Bartels, Vanderbilt University.

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One shoulder, completely replaced.

It looks like something more exotic,
perhaps more naughty, than it is:
a simple x-ray after reparative surgery.

I am become a compound thing
of flesh and bone surrounding
titanium capped in polished cobalt chrome
on the humerus (arm) side,
while teflon restores the well-worn socket
of the glenoid (body) side.

The brief black line in the teflon
is a metal pin inserted
purely for x-ray reading,
for the surgeon’s reckoning,
because the plastic is, like flesh, invisible.

Three weeks since the surgery
plus three weeks more to go
of wearing the sling, all night, all day.

Three months minimum of physical therapy
and then as good as new, maybe,
at least without the wincing and weird sound
of bone grinding bone, wearing both bones down.

Fascinating and wonderful, it is truly,
and gratitude-inducing
except during sulky bouts of self pity
and instances of genuine pain.

Must I really have to learn so much
it was never my intention to know?

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Pants around their shoes.

Someone in the twitterverse expressed
great pleasure at the thought
of Trump and Putin brought down,
their trousers clumped at their ankles,
by the final straws
of Nastya Rybka and Stormy Daniels.

A piece of history to hold in your hands
like a brick from the Berlin Wall.

Available right now on Amazon,
only in Russian.

How to Seduce an Oligarch

P. S.  I found the tweet I “borrowed” from:

Replying to 

Can’t help but be amused that and
may bring the whole enterprise crashing down around these old men’s ears,
like a pair of crumpled pants around their ankles.


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