1.27.15

This is a thing which I was going to post on the weekend, but we had issues with home internet. Amusingly, all the other devices were connecting except the computer, which is new. The landlord had apparently noticed that our machine was named OtherBarry (after Archer, of course) and thought it was a neighbor and blocked it. Works now. 

I know I'm not supposed to admit to doing this normally during work hours, but that's where it usually happens. Something about needing one type of work to get you through the other. Used to be that you worked a "real" job to support a passion. Sometimes people are lucky to make a "passion" a profession. I guess some people are lucky to have a passion defined as X rather than as Not-X. When I was a kid it was the former, now I wouldn't be able to tell you what I liked. 

Do you want me to write more exposition, or just slap some verse down here and let you do whatever you want with it? 

Componer

A poem in three parts

“To put with”, dearest Latin, you dictate

how the parts come together:

not even parts, so much as

things which are united.

Items distributed for purchase,

the economy rests on a bench, the bursar

double checks his list.

Disheveled, they are made into art

and reshelved.

The washers and bolts fit

like the three-hole-punched collection

of definitions.

To put is to display the purpose,

active reasoning, choice,

design.

The collection is not arbitrary;

heart, lungs, pancreas,

connected by red straws

inside the hooped cask.

Each was chosen, not by a hand

in the machine, but made part,

with the slow intent of time.

With us, without us:

the divide is delineated.

The collection, the machine, the ungulate

is not one, but sum.

Each bone and piston nests

in the joint of another.

Radii grow, twinned to their partners.

Magnets fashion companions from rare earth.