Saturday commute cxlv: Let it breathe

     I don't know how an equi-
     valency was established 
     between this expression 
     and don't pour it yet, 
     but one can spend a life
     reflecting on its waste.

Oscar Kindelan

Francis Kokoroko
Accra Photo Journal
2017

People say, he's the life of the Party

   'cause he tells
   a joke or two -

   Trouble is, it's

   always the same

   joke, always for

   the same purpose,

   never so clearly

   perceived before

   now. He wants to

   be excused. Time

   to think it over.

Alexander Calder

Lithograph on paper

Los Angeles County

  Museum of Art

1965

Armani nirvana

A Graham Greene satire from
the halcyon days of Fulgencio
Batista is not, necessarily, 
the likeliest interpretation
of the present charade - but
why not? Its foully flamboy-
ant polo club and expense ac-
count posh are so well mimed
in our sumptuously corrupted
epoch, that its merry premise
of prospering by pure falsity
needs scarcely to be stated.

Yes, but any playful allusion
subsists on such a stretch of
mirth that Our Man in Havana
only leaps to mind as sorely
missed in kilt-ridden times.














Graham Greene
Our Man in Havana
Heinemann, 1958©


Fernando Kodiak
Tom Bird

Sticks

 Toothbrushes in a rack on an

 orphanage wall, a rainbow of

 identification for those who

 are learning as they're fed.

 Yes this is about monuments.

ii, iv  Francis Kokoroko

          Accra Photo Journal

          

Font

 How very like health
 human dignity begins
 to look, as soon as
 it departs

                  

   



















Luis Barragán
1960

What more could one ask of Afghanistan?

I certainly hope our Impresario-

in-Chief will feel himself in a 

position to promise us all a res-

toration to greatness in the Af-

ghan textile trade, for our next

few hundred billion. Vestments

and lap throws will mark a high-

er return on investment than we

have achieved so far, in this

longest of all foreign wars,

and might be just the thing to

seize the luxury goods imagina-

tion of his councillor-daughter.

I am positively wearing out a

sumptuous but delicate scarf, a

traveling friend brought me from

that redoubt of cashmere grazing. 

I only hope, by now, that this

long-standing skeptic of every

catastrophe he didn't precipit-

ate, himself, will not tamper 

with the war's salubrious prop-

agation of poppies, to say noth-

ing of teas, and other herbs. Or

should we make less light of our

wars, just now, and leave that

confidently to his ministrations? 

Alexander Calder

Tapestry in jute

1975

Changing throats

It has been such a wonderful week

for moral clarity that one almost

hates to discern a strait, or ev-

en so much as a shadow to extenu-

ate this invigoration. The papers

and their digital appendages are

full of demands for extirpation

of impacted illusions, under the

impeccable provenance of yet an-

other Presidential provocation.

If there is anything more ener-

getically to be interrogated,

than a superfluous validation

of a vengeful premeditation,

it surpasses irony in emulating

the tone of a false just cause, 

to be embracing that monster

inherent in the absolutist vi-

sion. Tired tirades, ever chang-

ing throats. As is so often the

case with our incumbent Prophet,

sacrificing regard to prove his

case, he has exposed the vulner-

ability of even the good as the

distinction between equivalent

imperatives, such as our plan-

et's fundamental interest in

climate science, and his Party's

equally compelling need to crush

it. What focus he lends each day,

to perfecting our expectations.