Poem for circulation
By Anselm Berrigan
Things surrounding things
fill my Wicked Tuna grid
heart with a swishy austerity-like
intention. I cut my post-fleshy
forearms & bleed a serious parallel
echo chamber reading everything
to approve of nothing. I massage
my anterior cruciate ligaments
to celebrate a hard won royal flush.
This mind is slick-like and easy-like
and music-like and gesture-like
and, as I am the dappled heathen
you've been given internal permission
to dismiss from your sacrosanct
barricades and bounty systems,
coy, and shit-like. A second first-person
recapitulation does not defiantly
buy shape rightly here. Sane
continuity is your trashy blues
making progress out of heart's lack.
How should I know you're not
there bleeding, respectably
to conclude a moist relentment
and make my evil labors clear?
I spent Tuesday morning catching up on chores after a weekend spent mostly out of the house -- the laundry still needs folding and the living room table is still a disaster, but the sodden Renfaire clothes are all clean. After lunch I took Adam to the Woodward Relays, an invitational cross country meet, where he was reasonably happy with his own time but apparently the heat and humidity took a toll on his school's results overall; after I dropped him off, I went to AC Moore to get thicker ribbon to replace the satin ribbon that came with my new bodice (and unties very easily) and Target to get household stuff.
We put on the Democratic convention for a little while, but though I agreed with most of what was being said, I just couldn't get in the mood to listen to the rhetoric and the Quebec election results were depressing me. So we turned that off and put on the Nationals game, but we were only half-paying attention (they won, and the Orioles won too meaning they are now tied for first with the Yankees which is awesome). So we put on Ghostbusters II on cable, and it was just as ridiculous as ever but I was in the mood for ridiculous. Here are some photos from the Maryland Renaissance Festival on Sunday:
Fight School, explaining the rules, speaking in unison.
Hack & Slash at their ale show, celebrating the joys of -- what else? -- the beer!
The Squire of the Wire walking on a ladder over a volunteer.
Johnny Fox about to swallow a wavy blade.
We heard bagpipes from the Rogues in every corner of the Faire.
In between rides, the elephant gets a hug from her handler.
And members of King Henry's court bid fairegoers farewell.