| |
Harley goes fishing...
...diversified with boggles
|
|
Published essays:
At Lew Rockwell
A Libertarian in China September 15, 2005
Enjoying the Bourgeois Western November 4, 2005
Literacy As a State Commodity December 1, 2005
Chairman Mao: The Success of Myth April 25, 2007
Quo vadis, domine? February 25, 2008
Your Congressman, Shaper of Souls March 6, 2010
What Is To Be Done? October 30, 2010
Ron Paul, After the Convention March 24, 2012
Elsewhere
How the Libertarian Party Will Come to Power September 3, 2009
The Sentiment We Breathe August 26, 2010
Heaven: Careful What You Wish For April 29, 2011
The Shadow of Marx Lives On April 4, 2011
Ultimate Self-Ownership [part 1] January 31, 2011
Ultimate Self-Ownership [part 2] February 2, 2011
Unpublished essays:
An Amendment to Save the Republic
The 28th Amendment
Ron Paul, After the Convention
Catholic Architectonics
Review of Twelve Delusions of Our Time
The Sunlit World of Dr. Schoeck
George Washington, Meet Jay Leno
The Roots of PC on Campus
Kannitverstan:
Gefisch
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
|
|
Eclogue
Frederic Prokosch
No one dies cleanly now,
All, all of us rot away:
No longer down the wood
Angelic shapes delight
The innocent and gay.
Poisonous things are spared,
The gifted are the sad
And solitude breeds hate.
Yellow is every bough,
No one dies cleanly now.
All, all of us rot away.
In broken barges drift
The warm and cinnamon-skinned
And in black Europes wind
The ice-edge lanterns sway.
The carousels are silent,
The towns are torn by sea
And in their coiling streets
The dragon snares his prey
Till all of us rot away!
No longer down the wood
May the tall victor lead
The shy swan-breasted maid
Or generous pageants move.
The loved are sick of love,
Love is strangled with words:
Beauty sighs in her bed:
The faithful, calm and good
Follow the songs of birds
No longer down the wood.
Angelic shapes delight
Only the perpetual child.
The murderer plans his night
And the green hunters horn
Drives the unwanted wild.
O mourn, willows, weep!
Till the clear spring return
And to the warming heart
The curious wonders creep;
A cry; a living sleep.
|
