the wheet!
i'm 99.44% sure there's something living in (or behind, i guess) the radiator in my living room. it keeps rattling. and scratching. and every so often it sounds like there's something inside the wall. i am not excited about either of these things.
basically a dinosaur trying to build a fish tail - spinosaurus, the dinosaur that could swim. (as opposed to one of the many prehistoric reptiles that could swim.) it was fifty feet long, longer than a t-rex, with a big ol' paddle tail. it was first discovered in the 1910s, but the fossil was totally destroyed in ww2. and then it reappeared in morocco more recently. and paleontologists went "what do you mean, it could swim?"
a woman in oregon has raised $28k for the oregon food bank by baking giant-ass cinnamon rolls. she needed a way to cope with covid-19 and it turned out to be... absolutely massive baked goods.
in other "coping with covid" news, a lucky guinea pig in new jersey got a gallery's worth of guinea pig inspired fine art, on account of her human needing to distract herself. it's called the piggenheim. :D enjoy such great works as grant wood's american cavy, magritte's the treachery of vegetables, da vinci's rodent lisa, and munch's the wheet.
check out this poster asking dogs to join a birthday parade for a neighbor dog's humans. the best part? the sanitized party hats.
because the first poem for poetry month was about dogs, the last poem for poetry month is, uh, not totally about dogs, but there's a dog in it.
After the birthing of bombs of forks and fear,
the frantic automatic weapons unleashed,
the spray of bullets into a crowd holding hands,
that brute sky opening in a slate metal maw
that swallows only the unsayable in each of us, what's
left? Even the hidden nowhere river is poisoned
orange and acidic by a coal mine. How can
you not fear humanity, want to lick the creek
bottom dry to suck the deadly water up into
your own lungs, like venom? Reader, I want to
say, Don't die. Even when silvery fish after fish
comes back belly up, and the country plummets
into a crepitating crater of hatred, isn't there still
something singing? The truth is: I don't know.
But sometimes, I swear I hear it, the wound closing
like a rusted-over garage door, and I can still move
my living limbs into the world without too much
pain, can still marvel at how the dog runs straight
toward the pickup trucks break-necking down
the road, because she thinks she loves them,
because she’s sure, without a doubt, that the loud
roaring things will love her back, her soft small self
alive with desire to share her goddamn enthusiasm,
until I yank the leash back to save her because
I want her to survive forever. Don't die, I say,
and we decide to walk for a bit longer, starlings
high and fevered above us, winter coming to lay
her cold corpse down upon this little plot of earth.
Perhaps, we are always hurtling our body towards
the thing that will obliterate us, begging for love
from the speeding passage of time, and so maybe
like the dog obedient at my heels, we can walk together
peacefully, at least until the next truck comes.
--"The Leash", Ada Limón
basically a dinosaur trying to build a fish tail - spinosaurus, the dinosaur that could swim. (as opposed to one of the many prehistoric reptiles that could swim.) it was fifty feet long, longer than a t-rex, with a big ol' paddle tail. it was first discovered in the 1910s, but the fossil was totally destroyed in ww2. and then it reappeared in morocco more recently. and paleontologists went "what do you mean, it could swim?"
a woman in oregon has raised $28k for the oregon food bank by baking giant-ass cinnamon rolls. she needed a way to cope with covid-19 and it turned out to be... absolutely massive baked goods.
in other "coping with covid" news, a lucky guinea pig in new jersey got a gallery's worth of guinea pig inspired fine art, on account of her human needing to distract herself. it's called the piggenheim. :D enjoy such great works as grant wood's american cavy, magritte's the treachery of vegetables, da vinci's rodent lisa, and munch's the wheet.
check out this poster asking dogs to join a birthday parade for a neighbor dog's humans. the best part? the sanitized party hats.
because the first poem for poetry month was about dogs, the last poem for poetry month is, uh, not totally about dogs, but there's a dog in it.
After the birthing of bombs of forks and fear,
the frantic automatic weapons unleashed,
the spray of bullets into a crowd holding hands,
that brute sky opening in a slate metal maw
that swallows only the unsayable in each of us, what's
left? Even the hidden nowhere river is poisoned
orange and acidic by a coal mine. How can
you not fear humanity, want to lick the creek
bottom dry to suck the deadly water up into
your own lungs, like venom? Reader, I want to
say, Don't die. Even when silvery fish after fish
comes back belly up, and the country plummets
into a crepitating crater of hatred, isn't there still
something singing? The truth is: I don't know.
But sometimes, I swear I hear it, the wound closing
like a rusted-over garage door, and I can still move
my living limbs into the world without too much
pain, can still marvel at how the dog runs straight
toward the pickup trucks break-necking down
the road, because she thinks she loves them,
because she’s sure, without a doubt, that the loud
roaring things will love her back, her soft small self
alive with desire to share her goddamn enthusiasm,
until I yank the leash back to save her because
I want her to survive forever. Don't die, I say,
and we decide to walk for a bit longer, starlings
high and fevered above us, winter coming to lay
her cold corpse down upon this little plot of earth.
Perhaps, we are always hurtling our body towards
the thing that will obliterate us, begging for love
from the speeding passage of time, and so maybe
like the dog obedient at my heels, we can walk together
peacefully, at least until the next truck comes.
--"The Leash", Ada Limón