diaric, poetry, sonic bullion, station notes

’25 THERE IS NO LIMIT

Hot off the griddle, Auntie Pancake’s poetry and moon are out of bounds and in Gemini. 

Photo by Maria Borisenko on Pexels.com | <<c’est tout en sîrop>>

quick station note

After a useful sojourn to Ghost dot org, bardic bullion has returned to substack.

hahaha. the joys of being dual-minded in a dual season. I am grateful for the Ghost experiment and what it has to offer: a decentralized newsletter platform. Also doesn’t host certain buffoonery that Substack does. But!

I am grateful for the community on Substack I have been able to cultivate, and for the vibrant communities others cultivate there, too. To my subscribers—thank you!!! I deeply appreciate your time and attention and support, and your patience while I experiment.

FYI & for those who are interested in making a newsletter and/or already have one, here are some my trials and errors from my experience with Ghost dot org:

Ghost is not as user friendly: my radio show and mixtape links weren’t working in the newsletter deploys, which is no good since sound and music are such an integral part of my diaries and creations. I like to use a variety of media and Ghost’s capacities and flexibilities were not suited to my needs. The navigation for readers and subscribers was also disappointing, unfortunately.

More important than that—Ghost does not currently offer the vibrant community living and growing on Substack. I repeat myself, but: I am so grateful for my communion with folks. I read and subscribe to many substacks, follow many folks there (and more and more by the week). There are many beloveds and lovely artists and journalists there I love supporting their work and being among them.

Who knows, perhaps I’ll switch again in the future. I am fleetfooted, after all. But for now, I am glad to be back. Love you!


sonic & bardic bullion


It's quieter in my head so far.
plucked your eye out • climbed up that hill to rest.

Who am I with complete rest? Correct • sleep cycles? • avoiding the truth? • my eyes, burned weary • Been dreaming of Grandma’s house • and her son called begging, • Save my life.

fresh from the vortex of devotion, soul oriented toward obsession, quest is consummation • when the smoke finally clears • my lungs, filler up • like John, I am a word slut, gimme that fucking word search and ooh! the fun I'll have—

Enough Preamble.

Yearning away • I wanna give Megan... pause • Next door, the shepherd • fixing your juicer.

Baby, what happened to you? • Happens to all of us, mutation’s painful • less so than nostalgia? • Honey, let the satire strike you • let the funny hit • too close to home.

When it’s false flags • close to home, • soldiers, spies dragged up
category is: diplomatic realness
category is: left their hoods at the cleaners, so masks'll have to do
category is: secret police & genocidaire
don't worry, shitbirds, we recognize you anyway. • blink, chicken! blink!

obedience is most dangerous, most violent.

People, let's commotion. • <<comfort the afflicted, afflict the comfortable.>> • 
that nonviolence'll get you killed.

Grandma said, I’ll smash you! • Scotch on her rocker, Naples in her blood • Dal fiume al mare, Palestina sarà libera. • I sit, I swim in all the rivers my mothers gave me, give me, keep me • alive again and again and again • morning

when the baby is in her Nirvana era, led herself there to drink the blooms • what else is there but singing • singing with her • The heart of joy.

watching the mothers take down mirrors • portals, you know • who knows who watches • who is outside • now we know

before the ingress • the tide • my last question: what were those birds about • that crow flying • bumped his head in my window—twice!—looking for • my orange cat watching • gold eyes sweet honey mischief • slitted like a snake,
takes after his mother.

My last look: scissors and color flying, douse me • i'm going for rogue.


mixtape

Gemini saison ‘25 time capsule, for your listening pleasure:

This beautiful spring shelf mushroom print featured in the mixtape cover art is by amazing artist Gabi Guerra, and used here with her permission. Thank you, Gabi 💕 Please check out her wonders and shop at malahoraart.com


from the archives

May-June diaries out of the past for your reading and listening pleasure:


meanwhile

Royal star Fomalhaut • 2025 Finals • Mad Max interviews • I really miss MJ. • Carême and Stick • ReLiving Single, a joyous ritual • Reveling in the memories of Sly Stone and Brian Wilson • A gal who truly gets it. • Rest in merciful, loving peace, Parnia Abbasi, and too many others. 

& a recipe

Thank you to my family, who shared with me their friend’s 1:1:4 for homemade lemonade: 

  • 1 c lemon juice 
  • 1 c simple syrup 
  • 4 c water 

Add fruit and herbs as you like; it’s gonna be a scorcher 😉 

Stay wavy, love,

Kate

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diaric, poetry, sonic bullion

’25 Devotions

Design for a ceiling with an oval compartment containing an Allegory of Dawn. The scene is surrounded by an elaborately decorated frame with a variant for the right side.
Design for a Ceiling with the Allegory of Dawn 
Anonymous, Italian, 17th century Italian Anonymous, French, 17th century French | Credit: The Met



let's dance raw
Healing is fucking
exhausting.
It’s lay down your swords time,

No budget, no limit
ripe moments
Safe to be fertile;
Darlings, we are
Not property.

envisioning love that never speaks over
my songs on the radio,
rather, love's attunement casket sharp.

Speaking of love, watching you
question your greenthumb,
your withering distressed me;
so do the pigs,
so many more out there lately

voix magnetique
<<ce tout en sîrop.>>

it's beautiful here
learning I am capable of amends

hardly think straight • yet breathing, ink furious • tulipomania and <<Mommy, I love you>> with a tableful of flowers • "Violet" prophecy on the cans and The Neapolitan Quartet

Lesson: always bring a snack.
Nostalgia: red leather interior woody

wake up, be cringe. • the world is full of sufferers filled with unlived life. it's a poverty of spirit • you don't want no problems, you just talk like you do • lilac air in the yard and school bell bings down the road • It was my birthday again. I feel fortunate saying, "I'm still alive." Often enough, it is 1989 all over again • VHS Japan ジャパン 1997 • everytime i choose softness over suffering i surrender to giving myself back what I learned to steal

inside: coming home to yourself, keeping, going gently.
outside: the earthquake.

This last day is full of reminders;
the book says, Just be.

The sensuous pleasure of giving
yourself permission from guilt.

out of the past [diary archive]:


WKDC Radio, The Bard:


Without your readership, my art would be incomplete.

Thank you for your time and attention.

Stay wavy, love always,
Kate

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diaric, poetry

’24 Rather be

Lacerta, Cygnus, Lyra, Vulpecula and Anser”, plate 14 in Urania’s Mirror | Source

When the paperback is two backs curved gently together
Chests closing into embrace
a fire like Beltane, I fish
my nets only to stop and say cheers,

When it’s camping season, tents afire
and the kindling are the children
and the adults in the room hunger
for hot, young blood. Brutal gimmes.

When my motivation is desire, not innocence,
but my éclat. The benefics perfecting together
in my pasture. Ours to share right now. And I wonder
who else will find.

Time to burn the candle pink.
When age’s lip sync reveals down to legacy
down to a pair of fire bugs burning across the tree
us two, you and me, blood of Gawain.

She holds an umbrella when she dances
machucá lo. Machucá lo. Machucá lo.
When she dances, she stomps.
When I saw you, I knew.

When it’s pugilistic poetry rising
and I love that. Let’s keep that energy
let’s keep the flag flying. Let’s lift
our children, we are Mother. All these kids
are our kids. Look at our fortune.

When we are poetry in motion
in the face of pluto, giving face • face • face
Let’s get smashmouth.

[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 a pity to stay the same

Photo by cottonbro studio

don’t you know/
‘twould be a pity to stay/

the same. there’s no time/
for that. busted. old. moot./

when you’re looking for Justice on streams/
but not time yet. when lake como is in the algo/

but not (why?) yet. and her mirror had pink waves/
framing it like the building with its hem lifted/

like a secret peep, a winking ankle at you/
and that was the doorway./

when the sun is in my commitments/
and your values get the shine/

when it’s analogue plush and dizzy bird digital/
– i’m the siren – the way you’re mine./

xoxo,
now you know.


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diaric, poetry

’23 raining rubies run the roses

when it’s a rain run,/
when you’re welcome, hop on in my woodie/
my chariot plays again the Butterfly Lovers on violin,/
when there’s a lost wolfhound crossing the road,/
so you double back but dog gone;

when a teenager hangs out the car window
when it’s almost warm enough outside
and just beyond the stop
he shouts <<i love you>>
to the skateboard kid on the sidewalk
he calls back <<what?>>
when they laugh calling back and forth
<<i love you!!>>
<<what??>>
<<i love you!!>>
<<what!>>
when until their voix dissipate in the distance

if it hurts, let it hurt.

pay more for the waves that rise and blot your book
pay more for it is luxury.
For this city lived a thousand years
For this sinking has already commenced.




supper clubs, movie stars
winning the contest
(not caring a whit for the outcome,
caring only for fun’s plaisir)
above all, inner fulfillment
this elegant pearl shows contentment

The Wish Card

two tea parties in one day
all the cups end up on the floor

Find greater heights.

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diaric, poetry

Engaging Glamorous

When it’s a life of illusion
and I am the Magician.

way back when, I always wanted
a twin. an older brother—a shield,
a knight. later on, when i discovered that i must be,
i am, my own brother.

Here come the words!

remember when:
she used to love to say, ‘you are dumbern a sacka hammers’
then kill herself laughing.

when oh, all right, I’ll be
your villain.
You comfy?
Now what?



Photo by Blake Cheek on Unsplash
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diaric, poetry

The Romantics

House of Flowers
Gates of Love

by Zeus, it’s a lightning bolt(!)
storming expansion in our hold

(allow me to tuck you in, sweet darling,
your little duckie blanket all snug)

Halls of Power, pirates,
singing queens, sunset sold;
Flying scoundrels falling
in love, myths retold;

House afire,
Magic bold.

When it’s never smart to burn white hot
(lest you flame away)

When this side is paradise.

And when it’s my birthday.



Photo: Robert Katzki via Unsplash
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