You have to go see the new reboot of Shaft. Grandpa Shaft has an arsenal sort of like that.
HJune 26, 2019, 7:08 PM
Wirecutter tickles me.
ghostsniperJune 27, 2019, 8:25 AM
For the cost of that gimmick, it is lacking in content.
Those rifles that come down from the ceiling are stealing space from the floor above, or is displacing the insulation in the attic.
Not a big fan of concealing guns. Years ago, when I lived in suburbia, yes. But out here in the hinters there is no point, so I don’t. I do, though, have a burnt/antiqued confederate flag cabinet on the wall of my office I made a few years ago that houses 2 of my ancestors relics from long ago that rarely get used. Other than that all the rest are immediately available.
If you gotta hide em you should exam your premise.
The shattered water made a misty din.
Great waves looked over others coming in,
And thought of doing something to the shore
That water never did to land before.
The clouds were low and hairy in the skies,
Like locks blown forward in the gleam of eyes.
You could not tell, and yet it looked as if
The shore was lucky in being backed by cliff,
The cliff in being backed by continent;
It looked as if a night of dark intent
Was coming, and not only a night, an age.
Someone had better be prepared for rage.
There would be more than ocean-water broken
Before God’s last Put out the light was spoken.
Bright blooms of flame spattered shadows on that tide
Whose strangling fingers clawed into our lands,
And scraped out slots, fresh graves upon our sands.
A far-off signal flared and sputtering fell,
Its bloom of sparks erupting deep in slate,
But, like our last edition, this signal came too late.
The drumming bursts of broken cannons
Stomped along the edges of our gilded cage,
And faded like the lies we smeared on our front page,
Faded until all we heard of want or wish or war
Were the screams of our grandchildren slain
Beyond our gilded sand, upon our once fruited plain.
I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this
air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
— Walt Whitman
Still LIfe with Stick and Word
April is over. May moon.
How many more for my regard,
hundreds, a handful?
Better not trouble the dark water due north of north.
Better to concentrate on something close, something small.
This stick, for instance. This word.
“From a student radical/hippie/leftist of the Free Speech Movement/Vietnam Day Commitee era and a full-on Democratic Liberal in the decades after, I think I’ve evolved a politics that is neither right nor left but is, in its elemental nature, draconian. In the last 20 years, I’ve taken apart my beliefs with a sledgehammer. Now I’ve got to put the surviving parts back together with tweezers and other ‘shabby equipment, always deteriorating’.”
Real World Address for Donations, Mash Notes and Hate Mail
Gerard Van der Leun
1692 MANGROVE AVE
APT 379
Chico, Ca 95926
Gerard Van der Leun
April is over. May moon.
Comments on this entry are closed.
You have to go see the new reboot of Shaft. Grandpa Shaft has an arsenal sort of like that.
Wirecutter tickles me.
For the cost of that gimmick, it is lacking in content.
Those rifles that come down from the ceiling are stealing space from the floor above, or is displacing the insulation in the attic.
Not a big fan of concealing guns. Years ago, when I lived in suburbia, yes. But out here in the hinters there is no point, so I don’t. I do, though, have a burnt/antiqued confederate flag cabinet on the wall of my office I made a few years ago that houses 2 of my ancestors relics from long ago that rarely get used. Other than that all the rest are immediately available.
If you gotta hide em you should exam your premise.