Another band member sporting the PROSEBEFOREHOES look. Bands dig Neutral Norway and Neutral Norway dig CEMENT MATTERS. Watch out for new PROSEBEFOREHOES gear coming soon.
showing place, resources, where the enemy
and where love lay. I did not know
time adds to land. Events drift continually down,
effacing landmarks, raising the level, like snow.
I have grown up. My maps are out of date.
The land lies over me now.
I cannot move. It is time to go.
~ Alasdair Gray ‘81
click on the muses tag to see NN holy muses holy holy holy
When the Dean said we could not cross campus
until the students gave up the buildings,
we lay down, in the street,
we said the cops will enter this gate
over us. Lying back on the cobbles,
I saw the buildings of New York City
from dirt level, they soared up
and stopped, chopped off—above them, the sky,
the night air over the island.
The mounted police moved, near us,
while we sang, and then I began to count,
12, 13, 14, 15,
I counted again, 15, 16, one
month since the day on that deserted beach,
17, 18, my mouth fell open,
my hair on the street,
if my period did not come tonight
I was pregnant. I could see the sole of a cop’s
shoe, the gelding’s belly, its genitals—
if they took me to Women’s Detention and did
the exam on me, the speculum,
the fingers—I gazed into the horse’s tail
like a comet-train. All week, I had
thought about getting arrested, half-longed
to give myself away. On the tar—
one brain in my head, another,
in the making, near the base of my tail—
I looked at the steel arc of the horse’s
shoe, the curve of its belly, the cop’s
nightstick, the buildings streaming up
away from the earth. I knew I should get up
and leave, but I lay there looking at the space
above us, until it turned deep blue and then
ashy, colorless, Give me this one
night, I thought, and I’ll give this child
the rest of my life, the horse’s heads,
this time, drooping, dipping, until
they slept in a circle around my body and my daughter
I tried not to post a video of Michelle Tea. I tried to look around went through a couple of books searched a couple of names and I found some cool people, some good stuff. But then I watched this video and thought well Michelle Tea really does this best. Other people do it, they do it well it’s good I like it but Michelle Tea really does this best. So I posted Michelle Tea.
The fruit rolled by all day.
They prayed the cogs would creep;
They thought about Saturday pay,
And Sunday sleep.
Whatever he smelled was good:
The fruit and flesh smells mixed.
There beside him she stood,—
And he, perplexed;
He, in his shrunken britches,
Eyes rimmed with pickle dust,
Prickling with all the itches
Of sixteen-year-old lust.
Gone from her: jagged alabaster underfoot
No ripe peach orchard
No cedar glow, no candle lit
No amber flame
Boiled saltwater percolates steam into
Wilted roses into rank deadheads
What was radiant glimmers nowhere
No sleep will warm her breasts
The goat’s kids chomp the grass bare
Sacrifice without honor
Like hard dry pomegranate skin
The wind goes so still
In Crete no one will take you up:
Offered small jade glass cups
Turn acrid water across the tongue
Into one’s funeral, love’s loss.