The Song’s Page I celebrate the four corners of a song’s page. It holds: A tattooed blood and pain of notes, a hot coal’s ashing over in a dolorous tempo, a bumblebee dead in the flower, pollinating to the end, d.c. al fine, and you, singing the song In ultraviolet minor. I am listening, In…

My granddaughter drew with me back-to-back, each at our own desks. I made a pocketzine for a friend and she made these: [gallery columns="4" ids="9610,9611,9612,9609"] And this: [embedyt] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6c06BxreK30[/embedyt] It’s called “Tape Neighborhood”, she’s my own personal Christo and Jeanne-Claud. Only one roll of blue tape was sacrificed to enclose the universe. The Muse doesn’t…

Every item in this frame is a call to action. Drink us. Spend us. Share us. Know us. Remember us. Stretch us. Fill us. Every call to action goes deep in the mitochondrial well and the muse of will shouting, “Get yer ass up! Do this now!” It is a keen entreaty, not a polite…