Friday, July 20, 2018

Died Like a Window That Turns into a Mirror at Nightfall

  • Reflecting, I rediscovered not only can I write about parts of my life that are good, I don't because I don't want to, 
  • and cannot write about things that s(W)u(O)c(R)k in my life though I want to want to want to.
  • I knew this know this, breathing, awake choke, Life in the Apneacene.
  • Bitching re: each day's wet clusterfuck farts, breathing, sleep through night, kiddo.
  • Crash coming, tombstoney, bleggalgazian.


Frank Stanford

She died in the river, she died stepping back
Into the shadows, she died under the bridge
With her pants down, she died with a tongue
In her ear and a dark cigarette in her lips,
She died like heat lightning and milo,
She died like snake doctors on the windshield,
She died in the spring in a dark house
With a storm, she died with her cats and saxophones,
She died with the dead niggerlilies
And the fan belt part number on the nail,
She died first like the wolf
Then the snow in her paperweight,
She died with toilet paper in the screendoor,
And she died with a flyswatter and she died like a window
That turns into a mirror at nightfall, she died
With chowchow and dead flies on the tablecloth,
She died without a hand
On her forehead, she died on the side of the road
In the arms of a stranger.

Wednesday, July 18, 2018

because we could not figure it out bunkering was a way for us

  • Remember when Trump said Putin cooler than FBI and everyone was Woah, tipping point!
  • Hating google, twitter, facebook: a bleggalgaze.
  • I duck duck go for search but see my goddamn free blogging platform. 
  • Speaking of - week from today domain renews or doesn't.
  • I twitter, yes, hated facebook after three days x-years before fuck facebook.
  • Inside joke: Rankfay Eeblespay.
  • Bleggalgaze: I need stop replying to Premier League Twitter all-stars, I need stop saying I need stop replying to Premier League Twitter all-stars here.
  • Two weeks from today Earthgirl and I fly to Maine to hike for ten days. 
  • There are infinite reasons every post but two each year are tagged My Complicity.
  • Bleggalgaze: work's weird bad, I can't talk about it, real life's weird good, I can't talk about it.
  • This is not necessarily true, that I can't talk about it, real life. 
  • It never occurred to me I can, and if I can within what parameters.
  • Would I if I can?
  • Anguishing rules = post-hike salt cravings.
  • Bleggalgaze: fuck me.
  • If I could but don't, or did disguised in haiku, posted someplace else.
  • Bleggalgaze: this is the longest funnest upmanic since the last until the next, which reminds me I'll never be able to retire, plans are hatched to steal both my pension and my 401K.
  • Bleggalgaze: dammit,                                    until our 2019 Maine hiking.
  • This will be the last post I bump on twaater since thelast untilthe next.
  • Immersion, a Colin Newman project, has new music out:

[And because we could not figure it out bunkering was a way for us]

Juliana Spahr

Tuesday, July 17, 2018

So What If There Was an Attempt to Widen the Gap

  • I'd like think Corporate instructed Trump ignite biggest firestorm since last till next, stomp out that America populist lefty brush fire before it bursts, but no.
  • Centrist stompers, not to worry, motherfucking Democrats are on it, This. Is. Cash. Money.
  • I do think the dumbasses at Corporate genuinely understand the Camaro's brakes are shot (if not his breaks), if it doesn't BOOM then take the keys when it coasts to a stop.
  • Nah, I kid, I mean they will, eventually, when the rents run dry, but it's only Tuesday.
  • Psst. Already over, the fuss over latest episode of Today's AIEE! 
  • (except for professional Democrats, still giddy, thankful for Trump's gift to wield against leftists).
  • I've no doubt the dumbasses at Corporate don't fret sessions of King Pence, who will hailed as Heroic Reestablisher of Kayfabe once he's called from the bullpen.

Sunday, July 15, 2018

the vague, slight unremarkable contents of emptying ashtrays


Elizabeth Bishop

This is a day when truths will out, perhaps;
leak from the dangling telephone earphones
sapping the festooned switchboards’ strength;
fall from the windows, blow from off the sills,
—the vague, slight unremarkable contents
of emptying ash-trays; rub off on our fingers
like ink from the un-proof-read newspapers,
crocking the way the unfocused photographs
of crooked faces do that soil our coats,
our tropical-weight coats, like slapped-at moths.
Today’s a day when those who work
are idling. Those who played must work
and hurry, too, to get it done,
with little dignity or none.
The newspapers are sold; the kiosk shutters
crash down. But anyway, in the night
the headlines wrote themselves, see, on the streets
and sidewalks everywhere; a sediment’s splashed
even to the first floors of apartment houses.
This is a day that’s beautiful as well,
and warm and clear. At seven o’clock I saw
the dogs being walked along the famous beach
as usual, in a shiny gray-green dawn,
leaving their paw prints draining in the wet.
The line of breakers was steady and the pinkish,
segmented rainbow steadily hung above it.
At eight two little boys were flying kites.