Tag Archives: February

diaric, poetry, station notes

[february ’26] sundaycall from the cave sphinx

Gustave Moreau: Sphinx in a Grotto (Poet, King and Warrior) 

Hiya neighbors,

I hope you’re well, though I understand that feels impossible and improbable. But I pray for your good, robust health, that your verve is flourishing and protected, and that the glimmers of joy envelope you, regardless of those trying to feast upon us.

What are you reading? Do you like it? Do you keep reading things you don’t like out of the belief that you must finish? So far this month I’ve read:1

Here are some new additions to my ever-expanding to-read list:

They say to create more than you consume, and in that spirit, here are some of the latest craftworks from yours truly so far this year:

Yep, I’m still on substack for now. We’ll see how long I can stand the fumes, especially now with their polymarket bullshit. In the meantime, I created a new page featuring mutual aid funds and donations for our neighbors who could use some support.

Here’s the song that has been stuck in my head (gloriously, benevolently). And here’s another one spinning on repeat here in the cave, courtesy of a certain darling little owl who loves visiting. Thank you and bless you forever, Rosie Gaines.

Elsewhere we’re in the pre-shadow period of Mercury Retrograde <<retroshade>>, so I don’t expect this Chicago Bears hullabaloo will be settled for a while, and I notice some exes have appeared on the horizon.

Today in fire horse:

All righty folks, out like a sphinx—I’ll keep some riddles and secrets until next time,

dal fiume al mare, Palestina libera • Abolish ICE • courage or die, neighbor

Love, Kate

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diaric, poetry

’25 lmao what a ghoul

Screenshot of @alisonmartino Vintage Los Angeles' twitter post "The tribute to David Lynch at Bob’s Big Boy continues to grow. Lynch went to Bob’s everyday for seven years for coffee and a milkshake. As far as memorials go, this impromptu shrine is very touching and uplifting" with image attached of Bob's Big Boy Statue with impromptu David Lynch shrine including cans of cola, flowers, snacks, homemade keepsakes, photos of Lynch, doughnuts, and more
Credit: @alisonmartino Vintage Los Angeles

and by “ghoul”, I am referring to the stockholders’ meeting from Monday, and all the relevant sycophants. 

When, just yesterday
we were talking the King’s Disease.

When today it’s hot water
bathed and boiled in it
hot water, lemon, cayenne pepper. 
Thanks, Honey.

When under the blankets,
Choose the one who gives you 
giggles.

<<The way you treat others is a reflection.>>
What do you see?

When our touching noses
sparked.

When the sick and cold is too much
I can't touch grass
like I'd like, like you tell me I must. So

If it must be suffocation,
May it be
Trapped in an elevator—
Me, the Glory of spring
You, my Impossible crush
cornering me, daring me
My kiss a revolution daring you
Crack the window
—Sliding doors. 

When I am Focus. I refuse to give
my fear today.
I got too many gals and babes
to rile up 
and protect.

sonic bullion:

sonic bullion radio coming to you live from WKDC, juicy poetry and tales live from the crossroads. Stay wavy…

jukebox:

a time capsule

out of the past [diary archive]

what these nets drug in, 2019 and counting:

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diaric, poetry

’24 sleep in, neighbor

perfect blueberry muffins | smitten kitchen
[Scales I]
let it steep, let me weep
let me under
our birth swims creep

When the camphor tree spells 
tells me <<we're home>>

When outside of therapy,
I still love me.

When standing, even alone,
I still have roots. They grow 

When the horns become a ring
a big light monocle, I see.

When this baby calls out
the flight of the airplane

When the definition of moonfull
is the snow 

When soil at the same time sings vetiver
straining credulity, springing too soon?,
straining seasons into new 
expectation Which will confound you again.

Where I see strangers
She says ‘hey there neighbor!’

When I won’t wake, when i weep
from dreaming, the dream is decided

When your body is your mind,
So, move it, animal.

Orgiastic, his green branches
and his That Voice rutting with me

When we sang together feeling the swim
Coming for our bones, the hot dogs
of summer and the culling hounds
of winter. When the snow 

returned to us for one—night of our first fire
borne sacral in our seasoned house, 
the babe's a’rest at the top of the stairs.
Warm blanket, warm sun to rise in her corner. 


[Scales II]
When you see me, cold 
as stone, I'm still
your blood, now go on, go
Go ahead cry
with that lone eye
the other I plucked, trust
my warning was kind.
It's not for me to steal your losses.

When I run again.
My Hokas burning up
and my favorite music
when it's my pleasure, my strength
no escape.

[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:

jukebox:

On February 25, 2024, Aaron Bushnell self-immolated outside of the Israeli Embassy in Washington, D.C. in protest of U.S. complicity in the ongoing genocide of Palestinians.

TW: image of self-immolation to follow in…

3…

2…

1…

Picture of Aaron Bushnell self-immolating with the following text from the Economic Times article: Before his planned self-immolation, Bushnell reportedly sent a message to media outlets stating, “Today, I am planning to engage in an extreme act of protest against the genocide of the Palestinian people.” He also reportedly live-streamed the act on Twitch, which has since removed the video for guideline violations. “I will no longer be complicit in genocide. I’m about to engage in an extreme act of protest,” Bushnell repeated, as he walked towards the [Israeli] embassy, “but compared to what people have been experiencing in Palestine at the hands of their colonizers, it’s not extreme at all. This is what our ruling class has decided will be normal.” After dousing himself with liquid and reaching for his lighter, unidentified law enforcement or security officers could be heard asking off-screen, “can I help you?” After setting himself aflame, he repeatedly shouted, “Free Palestine.”
Credit: Twitter

I will no longer be complicit in genocide. I’m about to engage in an extreme act of protest. But compared to what people have been experiencing in Palestine at the hands of their colonizers, it’s not extreme at all. This is what our ruling class has decided will be normal.

—Aaron Bushnell

Video with segment of Bushnell’s livestreamed protest here; does not show the self-immolation.

I admire Aaron Bushnell’s code of honor and personal integrity and bravery. Rest In paradise, dear soul.

With love,
Kate

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poetry, station notes

Station note: my pretty redwood

Photo by Explore with Joshua on Unsplash

hello darlings—
My poem “my pretty redwood” now lives at Rat’s Ass Review’s Spring/Summer 2024 issue. It is an honor to be included in this collection of beautiful poetry and in this eccentric electric delightful poetry journal. I am grateful my poem has its new home. Thank you to Editor Roderick Bates. As ever, I hope you enjoy reading.

I love you,
Kate

jukebox:

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diaric, poetry

’24 the eccentric dance of the death lord next door (in five parts with a secret kick)

I. Myth
Astride ice mountains, a mood
daguerrotype of the demoted
planet. Out in the cold swarmed by the wounded
healer, the hateful river and the river’s cousin
the serpentine of dreadful resilience.
Shunted outside the galaxy.
Still, we do not escape metamorphoses.


II. Home sphere
It’s the neighbors again.
Their drip annoys,
their curb appeal draws
your stomping boot. In This market?
Pluto’s loyal diamonds advise "Buy!-Buy!-Buy!
	 “It’ll never be so good again.”
Interest pays some and cuts both ways.

Class wars was a cute joke
but here are the keys—
It ain’t no fucking game.
	Ain’t no fucking way.
You will see. You will covet
your lost privacy.
Your only solace the delirium
that you did not pay
to give it away.

Déjà vu: closing the blinds.


III. Sisters, brothers
When the real weight on you
is the knock that you are not at home
in your own body.

When the real work is to take
space. Terrifying, no? Say, No. 
On your own behalf. That’s Enough.

When you act like it 
will kill you to tell her
how you feel. That wall lies, BTW. No matter
if you built it.

When it’s not peace. It’s liberation.
Justification will only leave you
colder. Desecrated cemeteries envy you.
Now give over the keys
everybody go home.


IV. Sonnez les matines
When Elvis haunts me, his plaints his sad
When I make my baby a peanut butter and banana
milkshake to soothe those cutting teeth
and I finally feel the love for The King. 
Power melted him. I hope he was earnest as I believe
he was. I pray—whether he is 
an alien or dead—he is free. 


V. Leave
This is what power makes of me:
a reach to god. 

What offerings shall there be to Lord Death? 
Hmm… Did I mention I’m not into wine? 
Not this pale suburbia mama, no Sirree, sorry not sorry. 
I beg your pardon, but haven’t You had enough? 
Haven’t you been on the dole too long?


VI. The Secret Kick
Her hiss is a kiss
I'll eat it all up, please.
I may be a Sag 
but I love me Thee Stallion.

This winter is unearthly beautiful
despite the plagues, 
despite the genocide. 
Must be some of that Snow, Tina. 
Must be some of that pinkwash
heart glow that the shareholders could never 
kill nor take. After all,
This Is Regeneration Season
for the next 20 years.

[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:

jukebox:

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diaric, poetry

’23 Morningside Heights

When it’s her time./ when the first check is here&deposited in savings,/ When it’s her time./ when the pin drops through the camera lens,/ When it’s her time./ when it’s jockey in the mail,/ When it’s her time./ when I just want to listen to Nina Simone./ When It Is Her Time.

when it’s an ice storm,/ no power for longer than you can stand,/ when the verse is a nest, it must be/ to confess./ when i got a line out;/ bloodsworth and Proserpina./

It is her time./ It is her time./ It is her time.

Photo by Mateus Campos Felipe on Unsplash
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diaric, poetry

‘23. your ship is sunk, my friend

when i remember my own tipping point.
when you chalk yours up to
a generation's desolation and clawing for
something 
resembling control. weight. A carrying. 

You are underneath, darling, now what
can i do to help? Have a cookie.
Have two.
Get mad. Madder even. Loose the still. 
I became a derelict
—that’s fine, i accept—
by not keeping their ship
afloat. I surrender, you’re asunder.
 Oh I must be so powerful.

Even now, I swim the same
sea—yet vast, yet oracle;
skim the surf
while at bottom,
the sands, the deep, and theirs eat
the planks, the convoluted halls,
the mezzanine. A clinic
of leisurely reign.

In so deep you have to remind yourself the water is moving.
Photo by coco tafoya on Unsplash
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diaric, poetry

Nothins gonna touch us

when the belated gift is now arriving,
when you gotta float all calm-like in the highest altitude,
when even the dog bosses you around,
(yep, still float)
when authority falls down
(yep, still float)
and you look directly at the camera.
(yep, still float)
 
when you put on your shades and ask who cares? the sun’s going
to explode anyway

Photo by Uninteneded Concept on Unsplash
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diaric, poetry

Loomingssoak

When you reeled in the support you have
craved for longer than was necessary,
when you will rest.
When you will tender your
skin, your bones, your body whole with warm
water, scrubs and salt and lotions, with musics

a pair of blue-covered books (a song and a whale of a tale)
the virginal moon, snow-full

and yes, it is snowing again. 
and yes, i was warned about today’s wrinkles
and yet, the calendar insists–come to meet
and I must spur on.

If you surrendered to the air, you could ride it.

Toni Morrison, Song of Solomon
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