is a tiny wandering imaginary dinosaur which migrated from AOL in October of 2008.

Thinking Lizard

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Rhodingeedaddee is my node blog. See my other blogs and recent posts.


[6-16-2009 Update Insert: Most of what is in this space is now moot. I found out what I was doing wrong and have reinstated Archives and Labels searches. They do work. However, in certain cases you may prefer Labels to Archives. Example: 1976 Today begins in November of 2006 and concludes in December of 2006, but there are other related posts in other months. Note: Labels only shows 20 posts at a time. There are 21 hubs, making 21 (which is for 1976 Today) an older hub.] ********************************* to my online poems and song lyrics using Archives. Use hubs for finding archival locations but do not link through them. Originally an AOL Journal, where the archive system was nothing like the system here, this blog was migrated from there to here in October of 2008. Today (Memorial/Veteran's Day, May 25, 2009) I discovered a glitch when trying to use a Blogger archive. Now, it may be template-related, but I am unable to return to S M or to the dashboard once I am in the Archives. Therefore, I've decided on this approach: a month-by-month post guide. The sw you see in the codes here stood for Salchert's Weblog when I began it in November of 2006. It later became Sprintedon Hollow. AOL provided what were called entry numbers, but they weren't consistent, and they didn't begin at the first cardinal number. That is why the numbers after "sw" came to be part of a post's code. ************** Here then is the month-by-month post guide: *2006* November: 00001 through 00046 - December: 00047 through 00056 -- *2007* January: 00057 through 00137 - February: 00138 through 00241 - March: 00242 through 00295 - April: 00296 through 00356 - May: 00357 through 00437 - June: 00438 through 00527 - July: 00528 though 00550 - August: 00551 through 00610 - September: 00611 through 00625 - October: 00626 through 00657 - November: 00658 through 00729 - December: 00730 through 00762 -- *2008* January: 00763 through 00791 - February: 00792 through 00826 - March: 00827 through 00849 - April: 00850 through 00872 - May: 00873 through 00907 - June: 00908 through 00931 - July: 00932 through 00955 - August: 00956 through 00993 - September 00994 through 01005 - October: 01006 through 01007 - November: 01008 through 01011 - December: 01012 through 01014 -- *2009* January: 01015 through 01021 - February: 01022 through 01028 - March: 01029 through 01033 - April: 01034 through 01036 - May: 01037 through 01044 - ******************************************************* 1976 Today: 2006/11 and 2006/12 -- Rooted Sky 2007: 2007/01/00063rsc -- Postures 2007: 2007/01/sw00137pc -- Sets: 2007/02/sw00215sgc -- Venturings: 2007/03/00216vc -- The Undulant Trees: 2007/03/00266utc -- This Day's Poem: 2007/03/00267tdpc -- Autobio: 2007/04/sw00316ac -- Fond du Lac: 2007/04/00339fdl -- Justan Tamarind: 2007/05/sw00366jtc -- Prayers in December: 2007/05/sw00393pindc -- June 2007: 2007/06/sw00440junec -- Seminary: 2007/07/sw00533semc -- Scatterings: 2008/08/00958sc ** Song Lyrics: 2008/02/sw00797slc ********** 2009-06-02: Have set S M to show 200 posts per page. Unfortunately, you will need to scroll to nearly the bottom of a page to get to the next older/newer page.


Sunday, April 22, 2007


Fond du Lac Fourteen - Whoever you are, bronze man on a bronze horse (statue beyond Scott), I do not care. Behind you salvia spark, cannas blaze; and cushions of chrysanthemums . . . just leaves. City, city. Here, along the boulevard's vertebrae: evergreen to evergreen to Lakeside Park, I feel beginnings mixed with ends; relief, and none. The Red Owl supermarket. Fond du Lac's infamous Outdoor. Fade it. Some say there's a law of entropy too. What are we: puddles of peristent darkness, toads? Fifteen - I can't--that engine!: old, retired, and on display-- make out its--. There!: Soo Line 613. And the red kiddie train, whistling; the swings-- my pumping heart--metronoming; shouts, laughter; the teeter-totters, gymnast arms; cheered sky! Sixteen - From this island of pfitzer junipers and arborvitae/ where a car may loop to "cruise the gut" again; ease through the park to the "big hole" harbor, the beacon point; or fishtail toward Lakeside to be, Main Street divides. Touching/ a blue-gray cone, I pass to the left; cover/ the fronts of my shoes with a beige film, popping a stone at a pole. Toward the south, smoke (where the sun spreads) begins to lemon and pinken; a near tree crackles; the planet burns. What good am I? That mouse, for instance, jittering into the weeds, it--! Damn. The gravel shadows to ash, the breeze shifts, and the wealth of Stinky Point / and a bridge longed for, dreams in the air, ghost / greet me. Confusion, ten thousand dead carp of aeration, you have stifled me well. On the lake-edge rocks, a couple fish, kiss; near them, grade school boys. So it is: we come, wiggle haphazardly, go. Even if-- leaping at the neck of a goldenrod, a bee warms its hind legs with yellow muffs, then journeys south. All I need to do is step through those reeds. Between the elders there-- what's that? An early nighthawk! Strange cry. The water cannot be too deep out there: no deeper than he glides now, over it-- two-and-a half men tall; yet deep enough to die in. But I?  Each shown argument can be destroyed, disturbed, and all the buds of chrysanthemums, seas. Weeds. Weeds, if I rub you wrongly, you will cut. Still, I could tear you from your lives. But why? Because you will never bloom the ways I want you to? From the river's shore, two black guys, slim, young. . . . Behind me, weeds, moves a city, ofwhich I am a part: baffled, weak, but a part; and my reachings too--nighthawk in the twigs. Blade of quack, ragweed: the grasps of this seedling elm may exceed yours by miles, but no choices, no uncertainties. Alchemists of slime, should I demand this weed do this tree's work? avaunt? crow like a rooster? Dirty mouth, Fond du Lac River. Bullheads! Haven't I fallen? Do your think your shallowness better than mine? City. What time, what time is it, city? Bury your minds, ripples of weeds, jazz. Was I to know? Tell me, tiger-bee, was I? . . . Wah! git! git away! -- God! / Whirred world, will we never stop screeching, never live? [ 2 publication notes: - A portion of Fond du Lac, here sections "Eight" and "Nine" and the first 21 lines of section "Ten", was originally published in the Wisconsin Review. - Section "Two" and most of what is now section "Seven" along with several other passages were presented in Steve Trott's "Poet captures taste of Fond du Lac in his work"/ published in The Reporter, Monday, April 27, 1981. ] Brian A. J. Salchert

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