i thought that phyllis schlafly was dead...

apparently not because she just received an honorary doctorate from

the washington university of st. louis

this is controversial in that phyllis is/was a major voice in the

conservative movement...she fought against the equal rights amendment in the 70s

in a most eloquent way, she also told a reporter that the marriage contract is also consent for sex....

so if a woman claims that her husband raped her...according to phyllis

this would be inaccurate and, in most cases, a lie

she also stated that the pictures of pows taken at abu ghraib

showing our military personnel committing crimes against humanity

was a fantasy of feminists because that's how they (or i should say we)

want to treat men....

whatever

the justification for bestowing this honor on her by wash. u. basically came down

to this:

she is an important voice in the conservative movement

she is a "good" and "vigorous" debater

and she has contributed to the political discourse of the united states

to which i say: really? really? REALLY?

i would love to shake the idiot's hand who thought that this was

a good idea...

seriously there was NO ONE else that they could have honored? and again i say

really?

oh did i mention that phyllis is twice an alum of wash. U.?

did i mention that phyllis has a lot of $$$$$$$?

a major voice in political discourse...yeah, sure.

who are they going to honor next with a doctorate?

fred phelps of the westboro baptist church?

i mean he certainly fits the above criteria

it was nice to see a lot of the faculty and students

protesting this batshittery

if isu ever did anything that stupid...my head would explode

i tried to give my bk a hard time about it because he teaches there

but to no avail...i love how he puts up with me...

i don't know how he does it

poem for the week

My Mother Would Be a Falconress
by Robert Duncan



My mother would be a falconress,
And I, her gay falcon treading her wrist,
would fly to bring back
from the blue of the sky to her, bleeding, a prize,
where I dream in my little hood with many bells
jangling when I'd turn my head.

My mother would be a falconress,
and she sends me as far as her will goes.
She lets me ride to the end of her curb
where I fall back in anguish.
I dread that she will cast me away,
for I fall, I mis-take, I fail in her mission.

She would bring down the little birds.
And I would bring down the little birds.
When will she let me bring down the little birds,
pierced from their flight with their necks broken,
their heads like flowers limp from the stem?

I tread my mother's wrist and would draw blood.
Behind the little hood my eyes are hooded.
I have gone back into my hooded silence,
talking to myself and dropping off to sleep.

For she has muffled my dreams in the hood she has made me,
sewn round with bells, jangling when I move.
She rides with her little falcon upon her wrist.
She uses a barb that brings me to cower.
She sends me abroad to try my wings
and I come back to her. I would bring down
the little birds to her
I may not tear into, I must bring back perfectly.

I tear at her wrist with my beak to draw blood,
and her eye holds me, anguisht, terrifying.
She draws a limit to my flight.
Never beyond my sight, she says.
She trains me to fetch and to limit myself in fetching.
She rewards me with meat for my dinner.
But I must never eat what she sends me to bring her.

Yet it would have been beautiful, if she would have carried me,
always, in a little hood with the bells ringing,
at her wrist, and her riding
to the great falcon hunt, and me
flying up to the curb of my heart from her heart
to bring down the skylark from the blue to her feet,
straining, and then released for the flight.

My mother would be a falconress,
and I her gerfalcon raised at her will,
from her wrist sent flying, as if I were her own
pride, as if her pride
knew no limits, as if her mind
sought in me flight beyond the horizon.

Ah, but high, high in the air I flew.
And far, far beyond the curb of her will,
were the blue hills where the falcons nest.
And then I saw west to the dying sun--
it seemd my human soul went down in flames.

I tore at her wrist, at the hold she had for me,
until the blood ran hot and I heard her cry out,
far, far beyond the curb of her will

to horizons of stars beyond the ringing hills of the world where
the falcons nest
I saw, and I tore at her wrist with my savage beak.
I flew, as if sight flew from the anguish in her eye beyond her sight,
sent from my striking loose, from the cruel strike at her wrist,
striking out from the blood to be free of her.

My mother would be a falconress,
and even now, years after this,
when the wounds I left her had surely heald,
and the woman is dead,
her fierce eyes closed, and if her heart
were broken, it is stilld

I would be a falcon and go free.
I tread her wrist and wear the hood,
talking to myself, and would draw blood.





From Bending the Bow, published by New Directions, 1968. Copyright © 1968 by Robert Duncan.

note to self

3rd comp turned in

time to sleep

note to self

two comps down

one in hand

this is killing me...