an alarm will sound if it gets too hot/where there is civilization and wisdom
and in fact the alarm is sounding now/because it is getting hotter year by year/and measures to slow the trend are my nuscule
and another alarm is sounding/because the heat of hatred is also rising/to an incendiary extent
but it seems only a few of us listen to the wails
and others pass the gasoline/in a bucket brigade
i dawdle. reading edward bryant’s “war stories” in the last dangerous visions while digesting pizza. on pages 104-5 a woman spy is having a conversation with a shark who has just swallowed her whole and dived into deep water. but it may not be a full-biological shark. my late friend bernard schober would have liked this passage, i think.
i dawdle. there’s music across town, and I am invited, and i have a rented car, but i am digesting both buffalo wings and storyline.
I am mentally ill in much the same way harlan ellison, editor of the last dangerous visions, was. he struggled with bipolarity and clinical depression, but to a much greater degree than i do. the brilliant scenarist j. michael straczynski, executor of the ellison foundation/estate, went into extraordinary detail about ellison’s condition in the introduction to this book, which i have waited for for fifty years because ellison’s condition kept him from finishing the job.
my dining table bears a similarity to straczynski’s description of the manuscript-strewn tables in ellison’s home, which will become a museum called “ellison wonderland.”
my left shoelace is untied. it was untied all my walk to little cæsar’s too. and I had forgotten to put my fitbit in my pocket, so i will not get credit for those 2000 or so steps.
time to tie my shoelace and put the remaining half of the detroit deep dish veggie pizza in the refrigerator and go.
time to go.
but let me just check facebook first…
governors govern/presidents preside/representatives represent/but kings rule
for some it is a good gig/what with the scepter and ceremonies/the command performances the hobnobbing with bigshots/with the king the biggest shot of all
paradise for a megalomaniac and a drama queen
but the implied hierarchy is unsettling to some/and the acquisitive urge of royals/leads to the greedy want of more and more
which leads to some getting less and less
and competition amongst monarchs/leads to war
and though henry v himself fought in agincourt/rare is the king who takes arms himself
.
we seem to love leaderboards/to know who’s on top/and if you speculate that such number-one-ing and top-tenning/might be inherently unhealthy
the mob might call you a commie
.
some kings live prosperous long lives/some are booted out or regicide while still children
.
mother earth does not care
Today at PIP Coffee and Clay these two items came from the bisque kiln. The one on the left is a closed vessel with a cut-out lid. I have given it to PIP’s barista and resident sculptor Nadia L as a wedding present. She married her sweetheart Daniel some weeks ago. “Glaze it any way you want,” I told her.
The form on the right, while avian, is not quite a bird. Look closely and you’ll see a host of weirdnesses, because in the joy of sculpting, adherence to reality went out the window.
I’m still here at PIP, enjoying sparkling mineral water and waiting for 1:30 PM, when my second 3-hour session begins. I feel the mojo, and have a lot to do!
i was lengths of roll-tubed clay/alchemy performed today/made me beach bum beach ball cat/cell phone on the side no hat/so i use my hand for shade
vaguely hoping to get laid/vaguely wishing for a towel/but there is no need to growl/i’ll just chill on canvas beach/vague existence tastes like peach
i woke near midnight
there seemed to be murmurs coming from the front room/which since i live alone and have no radio/was creepy and scary
i swung the door to the front room open/to silence/to no murmurs/to just whispery traffic noise/and the high-pitched soundthread/of mild tinnitis
i closed the connecting door and went back/to bed/and soon dozed/but in minutes woke/to murmuring
marched to the door but stopped/listened/couldn’t hear much/but it was more than traffic noise
carefully silently opened the door
the sound stopped
closed the door but not completely/and at the edge of audibility/there seemed to be more murmuring
got an idea got my phone/opened the sound recorder app/set it to record/left the phone in the front room near the birds/went to bed
drowsed/dozed/sank into/the velvet starscape/of slumb THEN A CAR ALARM WENT OFF RIGHT BY THE BEDROOM DOOR BWEEP BWEEP BWEEP BWEEP EE-AH EE-AH EE-AH EE-AH KEEZO KEEZO KEE–
then abruptly ended
i went back into the front room/got my phone and pressed stop/and the display said 3:14 and i pushed the play arrowhead
and there WAS a sound as if of distant voices/but i could not parse individual words/except perhaps near the end
hard to tell but it sounded like a hoarse old crow diffused in the fog of distance
“he needs to make more of us”
followed by an indistinct murmur of bird-assent AND THEN THE CAR ALARM WENT OFF BOTH ON THE RECORDING AND OUTSIDE THE WINDOW BWEEP BWEE*
i stopped the playback/at the exact instant the second car alarm stopped
you win, birds
I will make more of you
All my adult life I have been getting come-ons/For credit for timeshares for one-time-only offers
That are focused on my deservedness
“Here’s your new credit limit./You earned it. Take that vacation/You always wanted.
“You owe it to yourself.”
Sounded good/But had I read the fine print on the back/And the APR (Annual Percentage Rate) of 29.2%
I would have concluded/That I owed it to myself/To flee earnestly
I learned my lesson/But apparently the electorate did not/And voted for president a proxy/To fulfill their basest desires
He will kick ass and take names/For lists for future ass-kickings
He will purge his land of the shithole rabble
He will take additional steps to ensure that his will/IS The Will of the People
Or else!
And a vast army of REAL Thugs/Slavers to do his bidding
And the Bible he defiled and sold
Says
“Verily, they shall have their reward.”
a potter a sponge an x-acto knife a potter’s wheel a wire tool a needle tool a bucket of water a trimming tool and five pounds of white sandless clay
made a globular vase form let it firm up cut it free from the wheel head turned the vase upside down carefully centered and buttressed with a thick clay roll
trimmed away excess clay righted the vase centered and buttressed it again
and then the needle tool made guidelines the x-acto knife sliced the form into segments and the clay segments were baked in a kiln
and the potter took the fired-clay segments and tried several arrangements and arrived at one that felt super-right but needed something
and the search for that something amid already-fired oddments yielded a tiny egg shape and a corpuscular micronest for it to perch on
and the arrangement zinged
A feast for the eyes/Delight for the nose/A gift and a prize/An iris a rose/A wink and a noddle/A symbol of lust/An apt still-life model/A breeze and a gust
They stem bud and blossom/with petals their head/An odontoglossum/Enwreathed for the dead
[Remainder of poem available on request]
dear diary, i crapped/into my gold toilet as usual. my favorite/way to start my day. then i went/on truth social and it felt/really good to tee off/on the disloyal. i’ll do more of that tomorrow.
can’t wait for day one. it will be to die for.
One with Clay, Image and Text 