I have longed to move away

 

I have longed to move away
From the hissing of the spent lie
to florida or some warm place
And the old terrors' continual cry
pf liberals beaten on the F Train
more terrible as the day
Goes over the hill into the deep sea;
I have longed to move away
form liberal pieties
and excuses for the savages.
From the repetition of salutes,
For there are ghosts in the air
And ghostly echoes on paper,
And the thunder of calls and notes.

One of the "Green Goblin Gang" is released without bail

 

New York Post (October 11, 2022)

An alleged member of the neon-cloaked “Green Goblin” gang accused of pummeling two 19-year-old women on a Times Square subway train was released without bail Tuesday — with her lawyer insisting she didn’t do anything wrong.

Mariam Issouf, 26, was cut loose on supervised release after being arraigned on a second-degree robbery charge in the Oct. 2 caught-on-video assault — one day after she turned herself in to cops with her defense attorney at her side.

“She did nothing wrong,” lawyer John Russo claimed as he walked out of court with Issouf — who covered her head with a leather jacket to obscure her face.

A couple of points about this story. 

We all know she was going to be released without bail.

Look at the perps and look at the victims. I am willing to wager they are bleeding heart hipster liberals who support Black Lives Matter and probably protested for them. You know what they call that?

Poetic justice.

I was told there would be no Dylan, poetry

 

In my craft or sullen art 

Exercised in the still night 
When only the moon rages 
And the lovers lie abed 
With all their griefs in their arms 
I labour by singing light 
Not for ambition or bread 
Or the strut and trade of charms 
On the ivory stages 
But for the common wages 
Of their most milk fed heart. 

Not for the proud man apart 
From the raging moon I write 
On these spindrift pages 
Nor for the towering dead 
With their nightingales and psalms 
But for the morons, their arms 
Round the griefs of the ages, 
Who pay no praise or wages 
Nor heed my craft as art

I was told there would be no Dylan

I have longed to move away

From the hissing of the spent lie
And the old terrors' continual cry
Growing more terrible as the day
Goes over the hill into the deep sea;
I have longed to move away
From the repetition of salutes,
For there are ghosts in the air
And ghostly echoes on paper,
And the thunder of calls and notes.

I have longed to move away but am afraid;
Some life, yet unspent, might explode
Out of the old lie burning on the ground,
And, crackling into the air, leave me half-blind.
Neither by night's ancient fear,
The parting of hat from hair,
Pursed lips at the receiver,
Shall I fall to death's feather.
By these I would not care to die,
Half convention and half lie.

I was told there would be no Dylan.....in the kids pants!

 

New York Post, August 11, 2021

Legendary singer and songwriter Bob Dylan plied a 12-year-old girl with drugs and alcohol before sexually abusing her at his Chelsea Hotel apartment in 1965, an explosive new lawsuit alleges.

The “Blowin’ in the Wind” musician allegedly used his star status to groom, gain the trust of and control the victim “as part of his plan to sexually molest and abuse” her, according to the Manhattan Supreme Court papers, which only identify the plaintiff as “J.C.”

“Bob Dylan, over a six-week period between April and May of 1965 befriended and established an emotional connection with the plaintiff,” say the papers, which were filed late Friday on behalf of J.C., now a 68-year-old woman in Greenwich, Conn.

The suit was filed late Friday, on the eve of the closure of the New York Child Victims’ Act look-back window. The window allowed victims of childhood abuse to file suit  against their attackers and the institutions that protected them regardless of how old the claims were and whether they had since passed beyond the statute of limitations.

No wonder that he was a big hero of moral bankrupt baby boomer types just like Woody Allen. I think it is definitely true and I hope the woman takes him to the cleaners. Just what this ultra liberal piece of shit deserves. 

I was told there would be no Dylan

 A process is the weave of the heart

Turns damp to dry; the golden shot
Storms in the freezing tomb.
A conk in the quarter of the veins
Turns night to day; blood in their suns
Lights up the living worm.

A process in the eye promades
The bones of blindness; and the womb
Deys in a death as the follicles leaks out.

I was told there would be no Dylan

 

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green rage; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How the same mouth sucks a Weinstein for a part

I was told there wold be no Dylan

I can't understand
She let go of my hand
An' left me here facing the wall
I'd sure like to know
Why she did go
But I can't get close to her at all
Though we kissed through the wild blazing nighttime
She said she would never forget
But now mornin's clear
It's like ain't here
She acts like we never have met.

It's all new to me
Like some mystery
It could even be like a myth
But it's hard to think on
That she's the same one
That last night I was with
From darkness, dreams're deserted
Am I still dreamin' yet ?
I wish she'd unlock
Her voice once and talk
'Stead of acting like we never have met.

I was told there would be no Dylan

There are many who say that a dog has its day,

And a cat  has a number of lives;

There are others who think that a lobster is pink,

And that bees never work in their hives.

There are fewer, of course, who insist that a horse

Has a horn and two humps on its head,

And a fellow who jests that a teen can have breasts

Is as rare as a donkey that's red.

Yet in spite of all this, I have moments of bliss,

For I cherish a passion for youth,

And though doubtful of biscuit, I'm willing to risk it,

And I love to chase rabbits and chicks.

But my greatest delight is to take a good bite

At a calf that is plump and delicious;

And if I indulge and grow quite a bulge,

Let's hope you won't find me victorious.

I was told there would be no Dylan

There are many who say that a dog has its day,

And a cat  has a number of lives;

There are others who think that everyone is pink,

As we all know they are in the inside.

There are fewer, of course, who insist that a  white man

Has a horn and two humps on its head,

And a fellow who jests that a mare can build nests

Is as rare as a monkey that's well read.

Yet in spite of all this, I have moments of bliss,

For I cherish a passion for tomes,

And though doubtful of biscuit, I'm willing to risk it

Even though our Aunt is bereft. 

I was told there would be no Dylan

But statues must be challenged or they totter

Into a chiming quarter

Where, punctual as death, we deny the stars;

There, in his night, the black-tongued devils

The sleepy giant of winter polity,

Nor blows back moon-and-midnight as they blow.

They are the dark destroyers let them summon

Death from an angry white woman,

A muscling life from imaginary lovers in their camp

From the fair dead minds who flush the sea

The bright-eyed worm on Davy's lamp

And from the polluted wombs these men of straw

I was told there would be no Dylan

Light breaks where no sun shines;
Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart
Push in their tides;
And, broken ghosts with glow-worms in their heads,
The things of light
File through the flesh where no frosting decks the bones.

A candle between the thighs
Warms youth with seed and burns the seeds of rage;
Where no seed stirs,
The fruit of man unwrinkles in the stars,
Bright as a fig;
Where no wax is, the donut shows its hairs.

I was told there would be no Dylan

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common visions
Of her most secret twat.

I was told there would be no Dylan.....just sandwiches

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

My weekend so far

Friday evening as I was wrapping up the week's work I heard a loud cracking sound - a large branch had snapped off the large Bradford pear tree in my front yard and crashed to the ground. While I would have preferred to prepare my evening meal and retire for the night I decided to spend some time cleaning up the mess - no time like present to git 'er done.

How the broken limb presented:

And from the other side:

I went about my business and when I got home on Saturday I was able to continue sawing the branch into pieces and pruning the smaller twigs off:

Not wanting to run the chainsaw on Sunday I spent the morning using pruning shears to cut the branches into pieces that would fit into my cart. I hauled them back to the burn pile and piled them thusly:

This particular tree is not the usual cultivar of Bradford pear - for one thing, it produces thousands of tiny fruit:

Or maybe it is millions. Who knows? Another clue is that it is huge - that is the main group of trunks and the saw in the foreground has a 3' long bar:

My blackberry lilies were almost a complete failure this year - first it was too dry, then we had a prolonged rainy spell, then they fell over, but they produced seeds anyway:

As I wrote earlier my efforts to propagate them were not successful, but one new plant sprouted off of the underground bulb system, so maybe I will be bold and try to transplant that one. Fortune favors the bold, right?

There is still a ton of Bradford pear wood to move but I received a call from a friend and what do you know - I and my dog were invited on walkies, our first since June. So forget about hauling wood, let's go for a walk on a cool, overcast afternoon. During our jaunt through familiar but subtly changed areas I saw some flars:

M R purdy.

Later, after consuming mass quantities I shall resume my mighty labors. Much remains to be done just to catch up with where I was before the limb fell.

Rumor has it that TS Florence is reforming and heading back. I have no idea. But there is always a song, regardless of the possibilities.

Leon!