Noah's first day at daycare today. Cherubim, and a flaming sword to the east of Eden. No no no no no, he said, when he got home, and gave the television a kiss. I know how he feels. I don't know how we fail him, only that we do.
In other noise, reading through the n-dimensional game of chutes and ladders that is Tony Tost's Invisible Bride. I love the open-headed, even-handed wonderment of the poems, their slow currents and shallows. I'm tempted to use the word mysticism. Is that just one of those catch-alls for a form of inarticulateness? In any case, when I read him, I can sort of feel my synapses taking the road less traveled. It's so nice to have something to read, and such a sign of my particular pathologies that I often feel like there isn't anything to read.
"Comparisons are odious," says Moore, but it's an impulse I'm addicted to. Please ignore me whenever I say something is better than or worse than or best or equivalent to. Please ignore me often. I'd hate to see a streetfight for best jeremiad between "For the Union Dead" and "The pure products of America. . ."
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