If you are looking for a way to honor MLK day, read this post from a man who has dedicated his adult life to working with and for Chicago youth: goo.gl/Rkdm6f
I annotated his post so you can join me in the margins here: hyp.is/go?url=http%3A%2F%2Ftut

The dogs went out into the snowy frozen night chasing a blood moon. The look on their faces when I let them in hours later told me they had not succeeded, but something electric about their fur tells me the found something else almost as good.

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What news
from the

these lines
of these times
these rhymes ...
such lies

we write

in hope

and maybe
nothing more

Our kitty, Mamacita, sits underneath a powerful overhead LED light most mornings, noticing the very dark shadows of her own body. Then she begins the chase, a joyous pursuit of her shadow self. How simple and focused and un-self-conscious she is, gyring round and round! She stops and looks at me. Grinning. This is the same very pregnant, semi-feral cat who years before walked through our cat flap, over to the kitchen counter, and jumped up next to me. Grinning. Fearless.

Garden Catalog Field Walk

I am
deep into
seed catalogs,
my fervid
new for this year,
Latin name,
how much row
you can sow,
and special
to sell
each unique

Last call and then a drink, I thought. My knuckles paused over the screen door. I had caught sight of the space on the porch where an empty mat had been. Now it was an empty rectangle framed by dirt. An unwelcome mat. Then I noticed a dark smear on the screen door glass.

Dictionaries, Like Canaries in the Coal Mine

I prefer to look
for words I don’t know
in the pith and spine of a dead tree:
the riff of pages
the algorithm of alphabet
the sniff of glue and dark ink.
I prefer these analog assaults
to my senses,
Prefer them to the frictionless

Dr John's Best Ever version of "Such a Night" piano blues -youtube.com/watch?v=QO53Xu6TZB Best ever. Best ever. Best ever. I will fight over that. JK. Just practicing a bit of hyperbole. No, not. This is the best ever.

My fine young tomcat,Silver, rolls over and over on my desk where I want to read. He is saying, "Read me. Read me." He is giving me something. Oh.His paws are wet. He's been outside in the snow. He's letting me know. He was the one who left paw prints here yesterday. What other messages of his have I missed?

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We strings sing
the hum of days,
the bow’s soft caress
of silent things,
the murmur of
life’s mysterious

Happy Day ... a response and gift of poem and image

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@tellio I love most about this poem, this: "We need to know / where these lines are / so that we can cross them, /" ... Perfect.

Thank you. My oldest daughter and I are at a threshold, a jolting change that is both difficult and exciting and, yes, "dangerous." And unknown. Thank you so much for this poem.

And the photo is a literal "sprout" from your poem. :)

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Stories are very small
And one-dimensional
And not complex
One view
Instead of many
Do not give me a tale
Give me a world

For Wendy's Tale

I am not ready.
I can't handle the true.
I ain't no ant nor grasshopper neither.
Ain't no accounting for what can be counted.
Learning is that river you can only walk in once,
Learning is configured in the past,
But it's not a clockwork.
Learning is chaotic,
A bag of mushroom spawn unfurled
And way out of fashion.
Count on it.

responding to @wentale from here: wentalearn.blogspot.com/2019/0

Birthday Aspiration Arising

I did not know that
I could be a bird till I
heard the fiddle sing.


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In an act of desperation,
I search, click, open, like
of disinterest
of banality,
of no import,
my act only done
to thwart,
the algorithm,
that, seemingly, dictates
what interests me,
what should interest me,
to what end,
do I fight?

Janus Time

Open doorways,
Frames on fault lines.
We need to know
where these lines are
so that we can cross them,
those ordinary
liminal, phase-changes
But the way to see them
is to unpack
the line from steam to rain to ice
in all its dangerous,
silver-black clarity,
a perfect
edgy and in the hedgerows,
alive and flickering in the periphery
like a zoetrope.

Fuck Off!

To hell with algorithms.
I don't want algorithms.
They are anti-stories.
I want imagination
Rooted in fact.
That's the story I need.
And you.
And you?

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The front page story was bad enough. A house fire. One dead. It was made worse when we realized we knew the man. He was in our church and sang with my wife in the choir. An older man. Widow. Sweet and quiet. The newspaper article explained how he worked for 30 years for the city, drawing up by hand intricate maps of the underground water systems. He must have seen the world different, with the ground we walk upon as the mere top of the visible world. Some we learn only afterwards.

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