HENRY DAVID THOREAU ~

Someone Is 200 Years Old Today

R E A D      M E

NATHANIEL MACKEY ~

M O R E !

LITERATURE CLASS ~

M O R E !

FROM THE HEAVENS ~

Dyed Brunette With A Blonde Streak

used to know her

bought fine clothes from her

always b’day or holiday gifts

shared stories of our children

laughed easily together

liked all the same music

knew her name and she knew ours

then the filthy rich took over our country

she was lost in the maelstrom

became shriveled and old

doesn’t know us now shopping the same day

in the dollar store

It Happens

After he grew

a huge beard

he barely talked

From The Heavens

I love the weather —

it controls the lot

of us

United

There is something

all together rich about

all of us a little poorer

walking around while it

rains in these small towns

—————————————

Bob Arnold

BEAUTIFUL   DAYS

Longhouse

TIM BUCKLEY ~

WALKS WITH WALSER ~

M O R E !

JOAN JETT ~

ERNST MEISTER ~

Still to

tell, still to

tell . . . my

memory

asks me, and I

stare at it.

Am I alive?

I ask my room, —

I ask

the space in the expanse

and lastly:

Are you, space,

what I know?

-

When we're

stripped right

down to

clay, then

the talk of

what's singable

is right.

The man who is born,

thought through to the end —

it echoes back.

-

Many

have no language.

Were I not myself

replete with misery, I

would not

move my tongue.

-

If we would once again

be given eyes

after some time

in the corpse, in death . . .

As we made love,

you examined

my cranium

very closely.

-

Look into the opened hand.

Departure

keeps showing up there.

A sound is present

and doesn't end

against the edges of the hills.

-

At the end of days,

what kind

of stammering will come

from mankind's mouth,

when difficulty

becomes a cripple,

if anything at all,

and the heavens' coldness

freezes the acts over.

Language formally,

this romance,

when the song already

lost its head.

-

Someday,

when the last ones

are doing well for themselves

above the ashes,

when love

is the most blind

since the times, when those

who themselves forgot,

children of untimed,

are completely forgotten . . .

we — you all

in the unstoppable

starry

misfortune.

-

Think, in the

quintillionth year

you won't

be allowed to be homesick

for person and Earth.

THIS, that you

were a child

of the universe,

is gone,

and where

is the unholy one,

the mother with her

wits about her,

and where

the star that shone for us?

I'm reeling.

I also wished,

before it ended, I'd see

a dream.

-

Wisdom, the idle wise,

might even a cut go

sharply across the eyes.

Unable —

all that love and guilt, all

that honor.

Also never to be ashamed,

as on days that

taste good.

———————————————

Ernst Meister

Of Entirety Say the Sentence

Wave Books

translated from the German by

Graham Foust, Samuel Frederick

CONSCIENCE IS OUR GUIDE ~

NOAM  CHOMSKY

R E A D      M E

BEI DAO ~

R E V I E W

New Directions 2017

translated from the Chinese by Jeffrey Yang

BERTIE KOLLER ~

ELFRIEDE JELINEK ~

R E V I E W

Seagull Books

2017

THEATER

POETRY

EARNED HERMITAGE ~

Letter To The Next Landowner

You won’t keep it up like we did

Not to worry — we did it for a half century

The stone hut, the sturdiest looking, will go first

I built it for our son — earth to earth

The house we re-built from ground to ridge

All the time it made the most perfect sense

A minister and his wife owned the house before we did

He not only sold us the house, he married us

The land was cut & mowed & planted & moved & loved

Every day of our lives, but don’t believe it

The land will tell you —

We are buried here

Our bones are the stones to be found

Wait for the wind

She & Me

She even stands with

me when I pump

the gas

Whippoorwill

About two minutes of a steady rowing mating call

Out of a blossoming apple tree —

Then the deadliest silence imaginable

Earned Hermitage

Shunned by

nearly everyone

on the road

————————————— 

Bob Arnold

BEAUTIFUL   DAYS

Longhouse

WRECK OF THE OLD '97 ~

John Mellencamp

FAREWELL ~

F a r e w e l l

H E A T H C O T E       W I L L I A M S

C h a m p i o n

Born	John Henley Heathcote-Williams 15 November 1941 Helsby, Cheshire, England, UK
Died	1 July 2017 (aged 75) Oxford, England

Poet, actor, playwright, activist

friend to Longhouse and many

many others — 

we already miss him


M O R E !

GRACE PALEY ~

R E V I E W

An honest appreciation to this marvelous short story writer —

I have read all her stories but it was only after I heard Grace Paley read one of her stories, in a small town church never mind,

that I figured I wouldn't have to go back and read the stories again. I have Grace in my mind. The poems are at-ease and communal, the essays come straight from one barricade or another, quite poignant.

George Saunders is always unusually focused dead-on his subject. The Vietnam soldier and poet Kevin Bowen is the ideal craftsman to locate this book, and Paley's daughter Nora brings it all home.

Don't hesitate.

[ BA ]