driving out east of denver
in the early hours after sunrise
onto the winter plains
frost and haze,
black cattle moving slow
in the muted light
the grass all gold and brown,
the sky all gray and
white, pale blue and
industry bellowing steam
into the layer of smog
just above the horizon
Submitted:
If you haven’t adopted a somewhat science fictional frame of mind in the last decade or so, you probably don’t understand things as well as you could.
If you’re operating entirely on that basis, you’re still probably pretty out of the loop.
the blazing light at the edges of the ice on the sidewalk
wakes up something in my mind, some sense of the real
and i tell myself it doesn't mean anything at all
except for snow and sun and everything that entails
but then i guess that's a lot, maybe that's most of it
it's hard to find the world beautiful when it's dying
it's hard to love what you're going to lose
but then if you can't find beauty in what's dying
what else would you find it in at all?
some days i think
you're only ever
talking to yourself
other days it seems like
we dwell in the
warmth of some
shared understanding
(like there's a we,
all told, lit with the light
of other souls)
it's always fleeting,
too brief, an unstable
configuration
except when it seems
bigger than the whole world
the way a mountain
in the distance
is part of the landscape
while one underfoot
is the whole of it
we're left i guess
unable to agree
what it all meant or
should mean
but i still find myself
reaching for the idea
that it meant
that it means
something
there was one i was trying to write
i had the pieces in my mind
and then the most of them
rattled out to nothing in the
juttering motion of the year
the bit i can remember, it's been
a theme of late, this little mysticism
i'm carrying in my pocket and taking
out now and then to turn over in the light:
an idea of the past
looping back into my life
20 years since i first left home
half a life-so-far ago
cycles and rhymes in the shape of the days
distant lights through the trees
i'm a natural sucker for these minor pareidolias
born to a people who still read the hand of god
in passing birds and the placement of telephone poles
or maybe i just have eyes, once in a while, for
drifts and currents in the way of things
even if i can't say what rocks and channels
give them a shape
either/or i guess
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HBO Max removed hundreds of classic Looney Tunes without warning. — But all these cartoons did exist. In fact, they were very popular. They are a problematic, essential part of the fabric of American life, and of the world that came before the one in which we’re now trying to raise our children. More than nearly any other cultural product, Looney Tunes makes it possible for children to have a sophisticated conversation with the past, because its entertainment value is undimmed by its continuity with the parts of that past that are disposable, unprofitable, or embarrassing. These films must not simply vanish in an ecstasy of corporate bean counting. They belong to history, and they belong to us.
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