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So, today, I promised puppies and unicorns, but NOPE! said the universe. In fact, today was even more Carcosa than yesterday.  Have you ever tried writing your own horoscope, at night, after the bulk of your day? It’s fun. Today mine would read, “gather your brave blooms close, hide under the covers with a flashlight, don’t leave the house for any reason, all reason can wait, get the storm doors ready in your brain, because a shitstorm of bananas is heading your way.”  If you ever get a horoscope like that in the morning, take heed.

I’m still processing the details, but things have been crazier at my job. Crazier than ever, which is saying a lot. I just started writing a big sailing metaphor about it but I deleted it because, meh, sailing metaphors. ships_bergantin

Let me just say that I don’t feel real inspired right now. I feel like crawling back into my poem from yesterday, and playing around a little more in that world, because it feels more normal than my life. The wasteland I wrote about yesterday feels more normal than my work life right now. Ugh. One of the things driving me today is the knowledge that as soon as I get done I can email my four besties and vent to them like I always do, and they will make me feel better because they are the four baddest homegirls in. the. ever.

My home life is still fabulous, though. I have two beautiful daughters, one of whom told me today that she wished on a star “for peaches to start growing everywhere, and that will be great in the Springtime”.  It sure will be.

Also, 50 days, 50 poems! Only 315 left to go. Progress, people, progress.

So, no fun videos or little snippets of internet stuff tonight. Only a companion poem to yesterday’s, and since I have zero lines written yet, we’ll see what the effort brings.

Here:

Carcosa II

How long does it take to recognize this is no dream? How long have I stood, skyfaced, waiting for drops?

Not listening, not listening because sounds are missing,

and with eyes closed because no one watches,

and giving up on the sky,

turn attention to the raw, continual plain.

The only eying encounter is the dead tree,

erected sterile in the ground, not just wintering, but dead.

Awake to a watching, something watches,

there is movement in the browned grasses. It is a lynx with the head of a man,

with a gnarled shock of bristles for a beard, and the eyes of an owl,

his pelt airless and mildewed.

His chained footsteps carrying him closer, and climbing the dead stand,

grasping the dry sheathing, I look down from the tower of limbs.

This beast steps on a wounded paw, with ghostly understrokes. His eyes, though wild, invite entreating,

“I am ill, and lost. Direct me, I beseech you, to Carcosa”. 

He answers in snarling babble, before limping past sight.

Through the branches there is evidence of the webs of insects. Signs of provisional life.

Below, buried in dour grasses, is a crumbling chalice,

a thirsty cup.

Every cruel thread looks mummified,

all it would take is one slipped cloud to turn it to kinder silk.

In the tree there is a mouldering rope, and in automatic action, I slip it over.

Before quickening the knot, there is the slighted glimpse ahead,

the browning sails of a drowned Bergantina,

in an empty seabed.

Maybe this curious sighting can pause the leaving behind,

of this world with no dew or witness.

**********************************

My. Thinky stuff tonight. I rather like this wasteland I’ve been in the last two days. It is interesting. And I know that there are some good poems gathering on the horizon of all this craziness of the last few days, so I’m looking ahead to those sails. How are you, poem friends? What is your Carcosa? What would your horoscope be, after today? Happy Monday, to you, friends.

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