toss to weather


Brrrrrrrrr! Good evening, folks. The Four Snowmen of the Blizzpocalypse have arrived, bringing our region a veritable squalltastrophe and making holiday travel one chilly proposition. This arctic paroxysm has snowrupted the holiday season, causing record-breaking coldvulsions throughout the greater metro area and thrusting roadways and airports into absolute chilldemonium. More on this cruel Canadian-air insurgency after sports.

Rex Huppke

Source | Winter Storm Elliott? Blizzard? Bomb cyclone? What happened to calling it ‘weather’?”. USA Today

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F or the dim regions whence my fathers came
My spirit, bondaged by the body, longs.
Words felt, but never heard, my lips would frame;
My soul would sing forgotten jungle songs.
I would go back to darkness and to peace,
But the great western world holds me in fee,
And I may never hope for full release
While to its alien gods I bend my knee.
Something in me is lost, forever lost,
Some vital thing has gone out of my heart,
And I must walk the way of life a ghost
Among the sons of earth, a thing apart;
For I was born, far from my native clime,
Under the white man’s menace, out of time.

Claude McKay [Harlem Shadows
(Harcourt, Brace, 1922)]

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against bigotry


Together, we must stand up against the disturbing rise in antisemitism.
And together, we must stand up against bigotry in any of its forms—
Our democracy depends on it.

US Attorney General
Merrick Garland

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* Florida Man Makes Announcement: Page 26



Been there,
Don that

    With just 720 days to go before the next election, a Florida retiree made the surprise announcement Tuesday night that he was running for president.

    In a move no political pundit saw coming, avid golfer Donald J. Trump kicked things off at Mar-a-Lago, his resort and classified-documents library.

    Trump, famous for gold-plated lobbies and for firing people on reality television, will be 78 in 2024. If elected, Trump would tie Joe Biden as the oldest president to take office. His cholesterol levels are unknown, but his favorite food is a charred steak with ketchup.

 He has stated that his qualifications for office include being a “stable genius.”

    Trump also served as the 45th president.

                        — Post Staff

* New York Post, Wednesday, November 16, 2022

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W hat are we when the sun dims
        And the moon is queen of the sky ?

When the leaves brown
                         And the birds vanish

When the wind chills the body
                         And the bears sleep forever
                                                  And everything seems dead

Then a glint of hope
                         A small delicate thing
The only sight of beauty in this frozen wasteland

                         A snowflake

                                                  Then two

                                                                           Then five

Then five hundred freefalling like feathers
                         daintily landing upon the frozen ground

                         Long times pass

                         and then the snow melts
And what should I see out of my frostbitten window but

                                                  A flower

                         Spring at last

Todd Hollow

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On Imagination


T hy various works, imperial queen, we see,
How bright their forms! how deck’d with pomp by thee!
Thy wond’rous acts in beauteous order stand,
And all attest how potent is thine hand.

      From Helicon’s refulgent heights attend,
Ye sacred choir, and my attempts befriend:
To tell her glories with a faithful tongue,
Ye blooming graces, triumph in my song.

      Now here, now there, the roving Fancy flies,
Till some lov’d object strikes her wand’ring eyes,
Whose silken fetters all the senses bind,
And soft captivity involves the mind.

      Imagination! who can sing thy force?
Or who describe the swiftness of thy course?
Soaring through air to find the bright abode,
Th’ empyreal palace of the thund’ring God,
We on thy pinions can surpass the wind,
And leave the rolling universe behind:
From star to star the mental optics rove,
Measure the skies, and range the realms above.
There in one view we grasp the mighty whole,
Or with new worlds amaze th’ unbounded soul.

      Though Winter frowns to Fancy’s raptur’d eyes
The fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise;
The frozen deeps may break their iron bands,
And bid their waters murmur o’er the sands.
Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign,
And with her flow’ry riches deck the plain;
Sylvanus may diffuse his honours round,
And all the forest may with leaves be crown’d:
Show’rs may descend, and dews their gems disclose,
And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose.

      Such is thy pow’r, nor are thine orders vain,
O thou the leader of the mental train:
In full perfection all thy works are wrought,
And thine the sceptre o’er the realms of thought.
Before thy throne the subject-passions bow,
Of subject-passions sov’reign ruler thou;
At thy command joy rushes on the heart,
And through the glowing veins the spirits dart.

      Fancy might now her silken pinions try
To rise from earth, and sweep th’ expanse on high:
From Tithon’s bed now might Aurora rise,
Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dies,
While a pure stream of light o’erflows the skies.
The monarch of the day I might behold,
And all the mountains tipt with radiant gold,
But I reluctant leave the pleasing views,
Which Fancy dresses to delight the Muse;
Winter austere forbids me to aspire,
And northern tempests damp the rising fire;
They chill the tides of Fancy’s flowing sea,
Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.


Phillis Wheatley

Source | Poems on Various Subjects Religious and Moral (1773)

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Six Words


y es






yes no
maybe sometimes
always never.

Lloyd Schwartz

Link |

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through a night


Passage through a night in the “seemetary” moreover palpably embeds in human experience a sense of what it is to fall down “dead to the world” and to undergo a spectral transit through a dark “noughttime” at whose sunstruck latter end, after encountering shades and shadows and sometimes harrowing hell, one hurls back an immobilizing rock and undergoes a resurrection of the body into the sun’s day, at the pearly gates of dawn, under an eastering blade of matitudinal light: “Array! Surrection!”

John Bishop
from: Joyce’s Book of the Dark: Finnegans Wake

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It’s not that the old are wise
But that we thirst for the wisdom

we had at twenty
when we understood everything

when our brains bubbled
with tingling insights

percolating up from
our brilliant genitals

when our music rang like a global siege
shooting down all the lies in the world

oh then we knew the truth
then we sparkled like mica in granite

and now we stand on the shore
of an ocean that rises and rises
but is too salt to drink

Alicia Ostriker

Link |

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Wouldbelove, do not think of me as a whetstone
until you hear the whole story:

In it, I’m not the hero, but I’m not the villain either
so let’s say, in the story, I was human

and made of human-things: fear
and hands, underbelly and blade. Let me

say it plain: I loved someone

and I failed at it. Let me say it
another way: I like to call myself wound

but I will answer to knife. Sometimes
I think we have the same name, Notquitelove. I want

to be soft, to say here is my underbelly and I want you
to hold the knife, but I don’t know what I want you to do:

plunge or mercy. I deserve both. I want to hold and be held.

Let me say it again, Possiblelove: I’m not sure
you should. The truth is: If you don’t, I won’t

die of want or lonely, just time. And not now, not even
soon. But that’s how every story ends eventually.

Here is how one might start: Before. The truth?
I’m not a liar but I close my eyes a lot, Couldbelove.

Before, I let a blade slide itself sharp against me. Look
at where I once bloomed red and pulsing. A keloid

history. I have not forgotten the knife or that I loved
it or what it was like before: my unscarred body

visits me in dreams and photographs. Maybelove,
I barely recognize it without the armor of its scars.

I am trying to tell the truth: the dreams are how
I haunt myself. Maybe I’m not telling the whole story:

I loved someone and now I don’t. I can’t promise
to leave you unscarred. The truth: I am a map

of every blade I ever held. This is not a dream.
Look at us now: all grit and density. What, Wouldbelove

do you know of knives? Do you think you are a soft thing?
I don’t. Maybe the truth is: Both. Blade and guard.

My truth is: blade. My hands

on the blade; my hands, the blade; my hands
carving and re-carving every overzealous fibrous

memory. The truth is: I want to hold your hands
because they are like mine. Holding a knife

by the blade and sharpening it. In your dreams, how much invitation
to pierce are you? Perhapslove, the truth is: I am afraid

we are both knives, both stones, both scarred. Or we will be.

The truth is: I have made fire
before: stone against stone. Mightbelove, I have sharpened

this knife before: blade against blade. I have hurt and hungered
before: flesh

against flesh. I won’t make a dull promise.

Nicole Homer

Link |

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