somebody asked why they don't impeach t.rump for war crimes, ha, because those aren't crimes! and all the presidents are not guilty and never impeached for war crimes not crimes, fools, peaceniks- that's not warcrimes, it's democracy, i.e. doing what they are told. even the climate strike doesn't impeach for warcrimes preferring to talk of climate justice unhitched from the business of the military industrial complex. probably easier to get money that way, not to get too political or bogged down in thoughtcrimes. no, war must continue at all costs. have your climate movement but don't touch the war chest. war sacred unimaginable booty to the one true religion of absolute power over every living thing.
 

this is for susan, who passed away today. i didn't have the chance of knowing her, but i feel this passage in my chest.

now we are in a time of death of species and

inflatable stars arrive at pebble beach. if i ventured to catch a star i could swim and suck helium breaths and speak like an ancient baby over the storm-cloudy water and whatever i might say would be funny sounds and the general drift toward senselessness would stifle my lungs again.
mister is not eating breakfast and moving very slowly. i have to check myself from despair recalling he has been this way before and worse. we know it could be worse because it was worse and inevitably will be. we hang like webs in space supported by thermal winds. this is a time we must do something we're here and we have to keep living this time of planetary demise. this is our time. we will not take inflatable stars as a sign of a party or astral influence or captive breath but of humans failing massively whose failure is the size of earth hurtling on axis into oblivion. now you can't think of a time when it wasn't this way for this way takes all the memory you save and burns and flushes it and stars fade in a pollution of light and baffling as memory floats away.

try to take care of someone else when you worry about taking care of yourself and everyone alive is in the extreme opposite of care by strangers who cannot love and don't care whether you live or die. try to take care in the most precarious time of state menace of terror and death everywhere with birds falling from the sky and cancer in the water and the air. try to take care.

see? you can still imagine this differently. there is still reality in which to imagine.

powhida seems to understand that although an aesthetic experience is not a politics in any meaningful sense, the ways it can change our thinking about the world can help initiate one.

imagine a world of care not harm. you can't almost gone in this one. it would be like a myth, right, get real. there once was a world. it would have to be a dreamworld. isn't it best to dream then? not this nightmare we have to return to. and yet, and yet it is no mean fantasy, this world was once paradise and we came along. you still see it in pockets where people live in harmony. you can still by glimpses through the cracks in built reality tell how it once was and used to be.

there's a reason the u.s. won't join the climate accord or the international criminal court, because might makes right not a crime and who can argue that no one.

someties i feel like a hallucination.

those are people who died. when the song people who died came out i sang for those people who died i didn't know. it came when i didn't know people who died. i knew people died but i didn't know them but i thought about them in daydreams about death and dying. there was a romantic tone to my daydreams. without knowing the people who died i thought they were cool for doing that, though it wasn't cool for them or if so it was the last cool thing they would do. though i can imagine that it really is cool when you die and you find that this side was death in reality and the freedom that eluded us in life became reality. the kid at open produce was listening to people who died. i said i remember when that song came to be. i wasn't even a twinkle in my father's eye said he. songs before birth about dying, when we aren't dead though not yet alive. he works nights he says and this is morning and you may be a hallucination and i say i could be sometimes i feel this way and this is the kind of rain that makes you think what if it was just rain world and everything leaked and every thing got washed away and we had to breathe through the water with straws eventually we would if the parts per million were few enough grow gills again in our ears. everything sounds underwater today. the water is grey and there's a band playing dripping rockabilly and all the runners are colors running on the drive blurring through my glasses like people made of rain. 
the singer of people who died died. i remember him.

imagine a different world rising up through this one

imagine a different world and self to meet from this world

 imagine a world without military control of innate freedom

 imagine a world different from this one

think of a global network of control by war and the threat of war, with masses dead or desperately dislocated, looking for refuge. think of a country that's not just a place but is everywhere in force that will do anything by any means necessary to seize control of the precarious planet for the merchants of death. that is u.s. sorry for the rhetoric it's just me thinking too much or too big picture again trying to understand the suicidally irrational 
motives making present reality. imagine collapse in military terms and that's where we are, though there is so much yet to collapse, we've just passed the tipping point, but it will be faster and faster now. it looks like a future of prison camps, refugee camps, war zones, and penthouse towers and mountain chalets for the rich victors of planet dearth.

rage against the war machine.

i keep wondering why the climate activists never talk about the war machine. it seems like a natural thing, and the climate movement is moot if the war machine continues. war is destroying the environment. don't you think it's strange? we have to put it together. war is burning the earth. none of the candidates is anti-war. isn't that sad and strange.

pfoas are in our blood. children are born with these pfoas. dupont and the scientists have known the pfoas are toxic since the fifties. these chemicals are in every body and in the water and the atmosphere. in these birds flying south. everyone even the ceo of dupont has these toxic chemicals in the body. there is no revelation only speculation we're the subjects and consumers of this toxic industry.  

 

collapse was inevitable. they used to tell us kids, no one ever said life is fair. buck up, kid. it wasn't the narrative of progress and democracy that was inevitable, it was the narrative's collapse.

trouble is one can't impeach a trajectory.

trouble is one can't impeach the disease one has to heal the system that regards no one with respect and all the layers of the system and one gets the impression the system wants to remain whomever which force wins with a sustainable level of corruption anything goes fire sale going on til it all goes ashes ashes the old song and children dance and we we have to move though that is not how it works does it but one hopes his impeachment will have at least a placebo effect past the endless news of the war cycle into the election cycle of evanescent hope cycle and kindle a little light in this blustery grey fall with glasses of rain riding the blue cycle that continues as long as i do.

i always think that about dad now as i did when he was alive he might be willing to try.

i'm reading kate zambreno wondering what book dad would be reading if he was alive. not this one i think but if i handed it to him. he might be willing to try. that's what i thought sometimes when he was alive. i gave him cloudsplitter after i raced to read it first; there were sap drops from the pine trees above the cabin by mirror pond on the pages he may have noted without comment graciously or did he read the book at all? we never had a deep discussion but it felt deep. precipitous. 
i was thinking how haunting it sometimes is that there will be so many books we will never read and it will never stop there'll be many so many more after we die. i see myself buried in books but not literally for other people strangers perhaps will be reading them. i'll be buried in clouds and i won't be jealous of the books unread. like this post everything will be read by someone.

it's dark to wake up in. been rain. dad would say preposterous i think. one of his words my mouth my brow mirror him say, preposterous and abzurd. rue the day. not to talk about the state or the state of the world nor domination but the sky all day looking, the sky all day looking. see what we do under the sky if we only look. we're just watching the sky today. it's come down to this there's no horizon the grey bleeds fog encapsulating towers. the wind  diminished. the sky still makes quiet. r. will be at hospice all day. the sky there too spread atmosphere quilted soft colors the inside skin a shell the body leaves, returns, leaves will leave again, the impressions the colors left of where the spirit formed the present. present, we were supposed to say when our name was called. i sat there a shell, the light subdued, internal. i sat there in class not there. not wondering where dad was, the tower by the river with the big desk and secret air. both of us naked under desks and no one else knows we're not there not yet come awake watching from elsewhere our bodies in built space.

the built world makes its own weather. wind tunnels that would lay you down and roll you like dough, autopilots that would score you with radial and steel belt and will. not. stop.

the gertrude book didn't cause wonder, it just made me think g.'s material was fame as much as words. now i'm reading chantal akerman, my mother laughs, and i was thinking she writes steinian sometimes, it's like an inner gertrude pops out. she writes pain and person, while gertrude writes more oblique and things slip out amazing sometime but her person seems more constructed. 

i do love watching storms while warm and dry.

oy, yeah, it was sunny this morning!

there's something disconcertingly almost mystical about it. for me, everything leaks. i think at some point i had rain clothes that worked but i don't remember, maybe there was a paradisal period of my life i forget. maybe it leached out of my spirit leaving the bad weather karma. maybe i'm just more cranky, and porous, in my sixth decade. maybe it's the norm in the sixth extinction, with the superstorms the melting and the rising seas, when we need a second skin more than ever, and less porous than the birthday suit. oh well fug it gnome sane one more walk and i'm for bed.

i know i moan and groan a lot but i think a lot of people who don't may be more miserable than i sound. as greta says, i'm one of the lucky ones! i would moan and groan for all the suicides in the military who are not supposed to be crybabies and all of the kids who face a blank wall for their future.

if you want to know how i feel now go out in a cold drenching rain with no protection and two miserable dogs who won't poop and who can blame them. i can't tie this in with every layer of trouble spreading continent to continent, rising to the stratosphere and sinking to the bottom of the sea, but somehow irrationally i suppose trouble's all the same when you're in it and can't escape.

you can't hold back the water with traffic barricades. they talk of adding parkland, funny while obomba wants to take it away. there may be no help for the water is rising and will flood all the speculators' plans.

the u.s.a. is everywhere trouble is.

orange is beautiful. the thug in the white supreme office can't taint a color evil any more than agent orange. anyway he's the color of disease and death which may be colorless with makeup. though white annihilates, you could die wearing any color. even wearing the flag of the ultimate empire. trouble is brewing i said to jadre and it's a joke we've been saying since i walked the black and white terriers that died, uh oh here comes trouble, it was me, smiling, it was the little rascals, not really looking for trouble just opportunity, it was the dark storm coming on the morning wind, it was a joke of the killing kind- we had to laugh, do we need to say it we say, yes, every day. we what we thought we dreamed trouble was only for export, other peoples' trouble is not us, right, export it, send it back, ignoring trouble in the deep state homeland, we had the weapon of mass distraction war to keep us safe from self scrutiny, from truth trouble, it always comes back, we never learn as long as the money flows the right way, unlike the garbage and the fusillades we ship global. the landfill that is our land coming back to fill our land with trouble brewing in a feedback loop unequal and opposite here in the land of freedom the trouble we made everywhere the u.s.a.

hi, spirit of karin, it was a year ago today you passed this way. we miss you here in this place.

what's that rap, my mind's a spare room, yeah, i think i heard it echo.

what are we gonna be like ding-dong the witch is dead? now we'll have the good witch, er thank you. oh shit we have that what you may call it one pence. no kids im afraid i must inform you, we will still be er fucked to be blunt. god damn us to hell gnome sane jest kidding!

 we pass by the white where the orange graffito was. the metra erasure suite.

 say what!?

i loved that graffito.

we met coyote on the midway, walking lightly toward a lawn mower. the lawn mower stopped and flipped its blade covers up, maybe to make a faster getaway, or to fend off coyote with the spinning blades? coyote turns back toward the den in the lush verger. lulu amazed. i think she knew like janey that this was no coy dog. coyote ducked in where lulu goes in repeatedly to lay in the cool shadows and munch on goldenrod greens. coyote knows lulu by her scent. i'm sure now she's been watching us, a few feet away in the verger. 
sorry the pix are not the best, but you can tell, right? you need to be in eye contact, in place with coyote. it's a natural thrill.

the pentagon is the biggest polluter on earth. greta thunberg and the climate strike need to talk about that now.

fountain tag in kitty park. mister didn't note the kitty. the kitty comes for her daily constitutional now. the park is becoming something it always wanted to be.

something is shifting. the mask is off the face of power. a little sanctuary appears. another little sanctuary is made. a seat carved by hand, symbols warm to the touch where a man was lately killed sitting with a companion. everyone in the community where harm is still done, come here touch this hold the warm bird carry the warm eggs in your nest-like mind around the neighborhood. please enjoy your sanctuary. you see it. now you made it. 

post dat. i wrote christine perri the sculptor.
i've watched the little park transform from a dangerous site to a sanctuary and your benches are a culmination of the process. thank you.

it's hard to conceive of everything mattering. 
paint for the children. 
web and wheel.
only titles that serve to deliver the images that you see are free.

i can hear your consciousness expanding beyond the narrowed constraints of the institution. we want to know our work is meaningful. so much work is toward the greater good of someone else's narrative. it is hard. everything is hard in this world. being engaged in something more vital incorporating the spirit makes it much more sustainable.

this will be an opening up where the security of the job failed in reality. i hope the transition is local, but i realize how it depends on circumstance. it is hard but we go beyond ourselves, through circumstance, past the false narrative of power.