259: Opus from Space

Automatic TRANSCRIPT

I'm Tracy case and this is the slow down. Have you ever noticed the way. Life clings to life babies and baby. Animals seem so happy everything around them in is an occasion for all going about the business of taking it all in seems from the outside to be an irresistibly delightful hateful game they wriggle and toddle. They giggle even as they stumble everything they do seems to announce I made it. I'm here life is a party and I'm the guest of honor. Sometimes when my own children's Joie de Vive reaches a frenzy I think of the she lions. I've seen sometimes on nature programs. The ones whose cubs are nipping and clawing being an prancing. For no reason other than that. They're so happy to be alive and I understand why those mothers sometimes turn toward their offspring and let loose a terrifying roar. As if to say you're alive we get it now sit still oh mama just needs a moment of peace one afternoon sitting on a bench in Dublin. My daughter called my attention attention to a pigeon who was missing claw. It gave me a faint feeling in the chest to think of how he might have suffered such a loss but he made his way walking on the one good foot and the other stomp. He was nearly as quick as the other birds. At snatching up the breadcrumbs as we dropped. Today's poem is opus from space by Pantheon Rogers with linguistic stick vigor and music it conveys the end of fatigability zeal for life that fills the known universe Oba's from space by Patty Ann. Rogers almost everything I know is glad glad to be born. Not only the desert orange tip on the twist flower or Tanzi shaking birth moisture from its wings but also the naked Warbler nesting head. Wavering towards sky and the honey possum the pygmy possum blind signed hairless thimbles of forward press and part almost everything I've seen pushes toward the place piece of that state. As if there were no knowing any other the violent crack and seed propelling shot of the witch Hazel pod. God The philosophy implicit in the inside out seed thrust of the wood sorrel. All Hairy Salt Cedar seeds are our single minded in their grasping of wind and spinning for luck toward birth by water. And I'm fairly shocked to consider all the bludgeoning 's and batterings going on continually the head ramblings wing fuhrer's and beat cracking 's fighting for for release inside gelatinous shells leather shells calcium shells or rough horny shells legs exist shoulders knees and elbows flail likewise against their womb walls everywhere in pine forest niches seepage seepage banks and boggy prairies among Savannah grasses on woven mats and perfumed linen sheets mad zealots. It's everyone even before beginning. They are dark dust congealing of pure frenzy to come to light almost everything I know rages to be born the obsession. Founding itself explicitly in the coming bone harps and ladders the heart thrusts vessels and voices of all those speeding with clear and total fury toward this singular honor. The slowdown is a production of American public media. Young in partnership with the Poetry Foundation.

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