 In the 1920s, 1930s, and 1940s, obviously, during the Depression era, when he was a young man, he had difficulty finding work. This is a poem about that experience, and also it's about growing up with his brother. But he wrote it in the early 1990s, when he was about 60. So his brother would have been gone for a long time by then. He would have come to some knowledge concerning what work is that perhaps didn't happen when he was young. That's the name of the poem, and the book goes from that was what work is. We stand in the rain in a long line waiting at Fort Highland Park for work. You know what work is. If you're old enough to read this, you know what work is, although you may not do it. Forget you. This is about waiting. Shifting from one foot to another. Feeling the light rain falling like mist into your hair, blurring your vision, until you think you see your own brother ahead of you, maybe ten places. You rub your glasses with your fingers, and of course it's someone else's brother, narrower across the shoulder than yours, but with the same sad slouch, the grin that does not hide the stubbornness, the sad refusal to give in to rain, the hours wasted waiting, to the knowledge that somewhere ahead, a man is waiting and will say, No, we're not hiring today for any reason he wants. You love your brother. Now suddenly you can hardly stand to love flooding you for your brother. He's not beside you, or behind you, or ahead, because he's home trying to sleep off the miserable night shift that Cadillac so he can get up before noon to study his German. He works eight hours a night so he can sing Wagner, the opera you hate most, the worst music ever invented. How long has it been since you told him you loved him? Held his wide shoulders, opened your eyes wide and said those words, maybe kissed his cheek. You've never done something so simple, so obvious. Not because you're too young or too dumb, not because you're jealous or even mean or incapable of crying in the presence of another man. No, just because you don't know what work is. That is right. Double dose of English professors. You can take a nap maybe. What I've got is a little bit of William Blake, who's a poet that I mean I write about, I study, I lecture about, but I have never really in my life ever spent any time reciting. So I just have this opportunity to try to recite a bit of Blake, and it's kind of fun to think about him in a different way than I usually do. This is from The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, one of his illuminated books, which has pictures, so you're going to have to make the pictures in your mind as I'm doing this. But just one bit of a word of how to listen to this, because Blake is weird, and one thing to listen for when you're listening to this is just to be thinking about that he's rewriting, I mean in his mind he's writing the Bible and working his way through a number of books of the Bible, Genesis, certain way to the book of Proverbs all the way through Revelation, but throughout the whole piece echoes commandments. So listen for commandments of various kinds, but it's not the ten commandments he's after. I mean what he's after is the type of commandment that shows up in Genesis, where God says, let there be light, and then there's light. Rintra roars and shakes his fires in the burdened air, hungry clouds sway upon the deep. Once meek and in apparel's path, the just man kept his course along the veil of death. Roses are planted where thorns grow, and on the barren heat sing the hymnbees. Then the apparel's path was planted, and a river and a spring on every cliff and tomb, and on the bleached bones red clay wrought forth. Till the villain left the paths of ease to walk in perilous paths, and drive the just man into barren climbs, now the sneaking serpent walks in mild humility, and the just man rages in the wilds for a lion's throne. Rintra roars and shakes his fires in the burdened air, while the hungry clouds sway upon the deep. As the new heaven has begun, and it is thirty-three years since its advent, the eternal hell revives, and lo, Swedenborg is the angel sitting at the tomb, and his writings are the linen cloths folded up. Now is the dominion of Edom, and the return of Adam into paradise. See Isaiah 34 and 35 chapters. Without contraries is no progression. Attraction and repulsion, reason and energy, love and hate are necessary to human existence. From these contraries spring what the religious call good and evil. Good is the passive that obeys energy. Evil is the active springing from energy. Good is heaven, reason is hell, a memorable fancy. As I was walking among the fires of hell, delighting in the enjoyment of genius, which to angels looked like torment and insanity, I collected some of their proverbs, thinking that as the sayings used in a nation mark its character, so the proverbs of hell show the nature of infernal wisdom better than any description of buildings or gardens. When I came home on the abyss of the five senses, where a flat-sided steep frowns over the present world, I saw a mighty devil folded in black clouds, hovering on the sides of the rocks with corroding fires. He wrote the following sentence, now perceived by the minds of men, and read by them on earth, how do you know but every bird that cuts the airy way is an immense world of delight, closed by your senses five? The Proverbs of Hell. In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy. Drive your carp and your plow over the bones of the dead. The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom. Prudence is a rich, ugly, old maid, courted by incapacity. He who desires but acts not breeds pestilence. The cut worm forgives the plow. Dip him in the river who loves water. The fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees. Eternity is in love with the productions. The busy bee has no time for sorrow. If the fool would persist in his folly, he would become wise. Prisons are built with stones of law, brothels with the bricks of religion. How do you know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough? Or from the end of the poem is his song of liberty. Let the priests of the ravens run no more in deadly black with horse-node curse the sons of joy. Nor their accepted brethren, whom, tyrant, he calls free, lay the bound or build a roof. Nor pale religious letcheries call that virginity that desires but acts not, for everything that lives is holy. That's pretty good. Moving along, it's Anthony Wumatoville. So the poem we are going to recite today is pretty short. It's called Rue 3. It's written by David T. He's a pioneer, a secure scientist that teaches that on the stage. I care about that. It's a math poem, so it combines poetry and math, which is something that doesn't happen very often. So math people get driven along by their liberal arts friends who might hear this. I fear that I will always be a lonely number, like Rue 3. A 3 is all that's good and right. I must my 3 keep out of sight. Eighth, the vicious square root of sign. I wish instead I were a 9. For 9 could fork this evil trick. With just some quick arithmetic. I know I'll never see the sum as 1.7321, such as my reality, a sad rationality. One heart, what is this I see? Another square root of 3. It's quietly coaxing by. Together now we multiply. To form the number we prefer. Rejoice in it as an integer. With the way of the magic wand, we break free of our mortal bonds. My square root of sign is commonly my love for you as very little. Thank you. And next we've got Jesse's towel. This is a science paper that I lost control of. Thanks for tonight. So I'll just jump in. Legacy of a cosmology. I know that you are interested in that you believe. And I know that the world too was in trouble. Though they will not believe for many years, yes, for many ages, since they cannot understand it. John Carter to Edgar Wright Burroughs, God of Mars, 1918. Who we are and where we come from in the bent of stellar cosmology is a mirror of physics, of little that I'm used to. There is no good fiction. Historical drama and period of pieces are hard months to crack. Often, it is, there are five points in this circle. Tap, tap, tap, tap. And three in this one, squeak, squeak, goes to chalk. You stare at it, write it down, note it, and wait. Stellar cosmology is, in terms of information, as useless as the number of rocks on the surface of Mars, there's nothing I don't disagree with. Hence no conflict. In a period of terms, I couldn't rush to the board and prove fault with the dazzling bit of math. But I've said it was an off-mirror of cosmology as a place looking outward, where looking outward is into the past and the past swings you into the future. We define where we are going by measurements of ancient starlight, the discovery of a battlefield, and other relatives, relics of human habitation, can be analyzed against what we are now. In this, Earthbound Antiquity formulates ideas of who we are today. The past, unlike cosmology, defines the present. The stars have always been our dreams, our portents. We cannot see them without seeing our future. In terms of physics and cosmology, we are extraordinarily nitpicky beings. Imagine a beast, a creature that has no immediate need to, which counts every blade of grass it ever encounters all the days of its life. This creature, if low for a paw, stresses over a single missed one. We gather and gather data. We have no idea if it is important, but gather we do. We stare at the dots on the chalkboard, the millions in sleep on the floor fretting over those dots. They were given to us. They must have meaning. We burn enormous amounts of resources, searching for smaller and smaller things to count. We can't stuff, if we can't stuff our faces in some crowning, we figure out how to shrink our hands. Among the stars we divine the futures of our lives. Predictions coupled with omens until the omens were predictable. In this way, for the Old World, a great deal of the globe is found not only to be missing, but far larger than expected. Future was created, gazing at the past and continues to hold promise. The greater focus of other planets, like Mars, moved the frontier upward. Our beam counting ways paid off. The idea of other Earths has haunted the mind for centuries. Ha ha, as if! The passive chortle ghosted by the glimmer of dream and prophecy like golden stream. We can't freeze, strong a draw, fishing the deep, sheep on the cliff, bows and blades, the moon at noon, fruit on the tree, wolves and weeds. To say there should be shock in our math leads to no mystery for me. Turning a scope to space is as natural as can be. Perfectly suited, the Earth observer is safely free. The sky is large and full of secrets, something we absolutely detest in not solving. We count, gather, and measure the blind whispered by our stellar lover is that she is our mother. Sorting into the fighting is the drama of another. By seeing into the universe past and playing with the unseen, we uncover the cemetery we are comfortable with. Not only is the frontier a promise of range we desperately want to know, is this all there is? After our moonshark, we got a clear view of what terraforming old soul would cost. A species, if this is our only ecosystem, worries about the states, famine and greed. The discovery of so immense a number of galaxies glazed our mind. It was the flash of game in the trees. Having our particle physics begin to meld with astrophysics. In the interim we build weapons of war and fear to use them. Turns the whale by the snout. The warm current brought with it the scent of a new ocean. This news may not have brought the reaction I ought to add, but my impression is that it confirmed our inner suspicions of the present. In an intensely miniscule amount of time, the tangled tumble of elemental tables converted with the wherewithal witnessing interstellar weather. Our solar system, a singular soleus, is not alone in the circumnavigation of our stellar cluster. Brilliant blossoms, bubbles, bubble from our beams below burns, banal becomes Jupiter of a thousand stars, lord of the ancient heavens, jovial worlds we call them and welcome. Our past is our future, and we doodle love from the eye atop the mountain. We yearn to be nurtured by a nature that we both seek to escape and embrace. Who are we? Wayfarers and dawn treaders, we stand on our shores with hymns of grace and faces grim, paddles ready for each limb, between us the sea dog named Jim. Our shot of hadron gun we probe the quantum courtsuit, dim sum, cosmic streams, theories of everything and at the other end a dim foreign sun to lose our place as special sum of a moment when we find a comet this old world we call home. For most others we want another place to build our throne much much too far to phone. On that day many well many may call it a miracle a mark of the sublime evidence of intelligent design for others that recall a past eternal the ember we lit and torched to candle to flame it is just another astrological sign arriving right on time. But who am I to say? I am no ancient Greek or Babylonian freak I am a loser with no great winning streak a union atheist perhaps is too neat to sail up a neo-nostic creed. Without humanism none of it matters at all a growing number of us are already asking is there anyone else who wishes to play ball? After understanding our complexity perhaps computing the universe's creation is the easiest thing of all so how long will we last if the universe is so state and vast how long until we fall? Our lives are short our span and quick tick times 10 catastrophe, apocalypse, cataclysm and judgment day on a solar eclipse dog us, beg us to remind us of our sin. But the cloak of pious hesitance steps to stumble below the eyes in the dark can be cast aside there are other events of heaven and earth like equinox like solstice and the turning of the tide perhaps the nights have grown shorter and we approach our longest day a frosted dog-wrong winter has crept from the sea yet we get retired by points on the chalkboard and we draw a star the first star, the morning star is Venus, phosphorus, Lucifer and Jesus it is wisdom, the symbol of David and Solomon, the Arthurian legend it is the five virtues of chivalry, the five wounds of Christ, the star is wood fire, water, earth and air Pythagorean roots gilded with the golden ratio we represent our senses and connect ourselves to the universe and our past patio the base 10 comprehensions of an amalgam of our maxima of counting digits by staring upward the bent mirror impulses this reflection into our gibbons three points on the chalkboard create a triangle the base shape of our Euclidean geometry is a symbol of protection in ancient Germany our muse is nine, the base unit of empire, man, woman, child our fate is three the sizes most utilitarian small, medium and large correspond to the holy trinity good things come in threes bad things come in threes Pythagoras believed in free it is a crown to me everyone must have a beginning, middle and end how many times must you try and try again first do not succeed indeed, three there is a heaven, a hell, a midgard physics is not immune with its electron, proton and neutron balance even even further reign supreme with gauge balsms, quarks and leptons do not be worried, do not be alarmed there is nothing magic or special in the observant observation is made from a tree there are five points in this circle and three in this one, squeak, squeak, squeak and we eat our jellybee what does it mean? it does not matter if it is something unseen and it's a tough enough to crack but that's what it is to be a human being how about Dan Hopper? you want to ask? Dan here? Dan here the song of the mouthwork I'm a homely little bit of tin and bone I'm beloved by the legion of the lost I haven't got a box of humanitone and a dime or two will satisfy the cost I don't attempt your highfalutin flights I am more or less uncertain on the key but I tell you boys there's lots and lots of nights when you've taken mighty comfort up me I weigh an ounce or two and I'm so small you can pack me in the pocket of your vest and when at night so weirdly you crawl into your bunk and stretch your legs to rest you can take me out and play me soft and low the simple songs that trouble your heartstrings the tunes that used to fancy long ago before you made a rotmesse of things then a dreamy look will come into your eyes and you will break off in the middle of a note and then with just the dreariest of sides you drop me in the pocket of your coat but somehow I've bucked you up a bit and as you turn around and face the wall you don't feel quite so spineless and unfit you're not so bad a fellow after all do you recollect the bitter arctic night your camp beside the canyon on the trail your tent to the tiny square of orange light the moon above comes something like a pale your supper cooked your little stove would glow you tired but snug and happy as a child then it was turkey in the straw till your lips were nearly raw and you hurled your bold defiance to the wild do you recollect the flashing lashing pain the gulf of human blackness overhead the lighting making great years of the rain the cattle horns like candles of the dead you're sitting on your bronco there alone in your slicker saddle sore and sick with cold do you think the silent bird did not hear the mockingbird or relish silver threads among the gold do you recollect the wild Magellan coast the headwinds and the icy roaring seas the nights you thought that everything was lost the days you toiled in water to your knees the frozen rat lines shrieking in the gale the hissing steeps and gulfs of livid foam when you cheered your messmates nine with Ben Bolton Clementine and Dixieland at my home let the jammy banjo voice the younger son who waits for his remittance to arrive I represent the grimy gritty one who sweats his bones to keep himself alive who's up against the real thing from his birth whose heritage is hard and bitter toil I voice the weary smeary ones of earth the hellots of the sea and of the soil in any way a strange mischief and mischance I am the stratidarius of black blank defeat in the down world where the devil bleeds the dance I am simply and symbolically me I am the irrepressive spirit of mankind I am the small boy playing knuckle down with death at the end of all things known where God's rubbish heap is thrown I thrill it to it with breath I am a humble little bit of tin and horn I'm a byword I'm a plaything, I'm a jest the virtuoso looks on me with scorn but there's times when I am better than the best ask the stoker and the sailor of the sea ask the mucker and the hewer of the pine ask the herder of the plane ask the gleener of the grain there's a lowly loving kingdom and it's mine so I have my phone on my phone with my smart phone Kimershed a piece of paper and a clutch this is one of my favorite films that I wrote in grade keelers creative poetry we used to go to church together we went to continually build your faith and I went to sit next to you we heard the same words but they meant more to you than they ever did to me this was your community you knew everyone and everyone loved you writing the church's bright red mower you attain the beauty of the earth surrounding your sanctuary you always had the tool they needed an offer to fix everything yourself at least giggle when you sing you loved singing about him but your little old man voice never quitted the right notes I remember one Sunday I was looking forward to singing with you but grandma had been out of town you told me we couldn't go without granny because all the old ladies would flirt with you without her protection I laughed and agreed I'm going to dairy cream instead the last time I visited your church I didn't sit next to you I couldn't or don't think it was allowed instead my brother took your place and held me tight we both listened the room was nearly silent but we didn't want to hear I wish I could remember what was said but maybe it's best I can only remember the sound of your voice maybe like the fine thank you so I'm not from here from Seattle and so I just heard about this yesterday and I wrote this poem last night and finished it this morning and I decided to read it out in America I'm going to call it remembrance there comes a point in time when one remembers their childhood as a whole, as a thing separate from the life they're now living this might be exhilarating a more real side of the maturity we already know we have it might be frightening as we're pushed into a world we've heard stories of our whole life but it's this famous world which we know nothing about allow me to explain the world to whom we now belong provides no safety nets it festers thoughts and feelings that we like to call pleasure there comes a point in time when one remembers their childhood when it becomes a thing of the past something we now may only long for we must build ourselves a fortress and spend our time foraging for sustenance but no when we remember it becomes our time to work pretty good because we've got three bullets left and we've got another time to get them in we keep moving I think next is Orion Orion Thompson did I get that right? begin in the screen the walking movement the waiting movement in the ways warming the stage and no dust okay Jesse Kaiser I'm going to be reading from I'm late to console because I could not stop for death he kindly stopped for me the carriage held with just ourselves and immortality we slowly drove he knew no haste and I put away my labor and my leisure too and my disability we passed the school where children played and lessons scarcely done we passed the fields with gazing grain we passed the setting sun we passed before a house that seemed a swollen ground the roof was scarcely visible the corners spun out since then to centuries but each feel shorter than a day I first termized the horses heads were tore and tendered to you next we've got Jerry Johnson yeah it's me okay welcome back to you thank you to live in Bozeman is to experience weather and I found it interesting a few years I've been here that you can read the paper then you can