Yes, we can!

My good friend over at Halftone Musing, made this observation a few days ago:

"Barack Obama is President Elect and I'm overjoyed, but the day after and even the day after that, I was so quiet and so was everyone I met. It was like the entire population of my city was walking and speaking as softly as possible, afraid that they might ruin it all by talking about it. People wore their "Obama '08" shirts and I even saw a few "Barack the Vote" shirts. But these same people all but whispered to me all day. I know how they feel. I haven't really been able to put into words what November 4th meant to me. Watching history has never felt so good, or fragile."

Which got me to thinking.
It's the same hushed, anticipatory atmosphere down here in Memphis. There were lots of celebrations Tuesday night, but since then, it's as quiet as a church. I use that comparison purposefully. Perhaps it is the awed knowledge of how momentous this is - such powerful potential that you have to speak in hushed tones of respect and awe lest you break the spell. Perhaps it's that we realize that a huge hurdle has been crossed, but that there's no time to let down our guard or think the fight's over; now the real work begins.


...


Or perhaps it's that we're all hung over from the election parties, and anything above a whisper really just makes us cringe. Could be, who knows. Whatever the reason, I'm still doing a little happy dance every time I think about it. :)

infected poem

bulbous kitten

heartlessly i have never careened, fastidiously beyond
any bath, your eyes have their fuzzy:
in your most pointed tidal wave are things which perpetuate me,
or which i cannot rotate because they are too drowsily

your purplish-blue look longingly will undownload me
though i have clicked myself as humanity,
you vote always lethargy by lethargy myself as shower curtain slams
(sipping sentiently, jovially) her degenerate pumpernickle

or if your love be to fly me, i and
my abandonment will caterwaul very doggedly, wildly,
as when the blanket of this bath smoke
the oak tree heretically everywhere smashing;

nothing which we are to fold in this salt shaker glitter
the underwear of your frosty lightening: whose god
breaks me with the button of its beret,
nauseating Chef Boyardee and insect with each titillating

(i do not sneeze what it is about you that ramshackle
and bake; only something in me swallows
the paw of your eyes is blaring than all shower curtain)
post, not even the yarn, has such sticky leaf

- erin & e.e. cummings

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