Blegsylvania is still dying its slow geriatric death, and Blegsylvania, even in its more robust days, always slowed between Thanksgiving and Giftmas as it's slowing now, but this slowdown seems sadder, more exhausted, depressing, forlorn, feels like surrender to inevitabilites. Did anyone doubt how Occupy would - will - play out, does anyone doubt how shitful POTUS12 will look and sound and feel like as it readies the populace for POTUS16 and on and on? Yes, space travel is boring. Yes, I project my aargh across Blegsylvania, broadcast my resignation before late capitalism's inexorable track to all Blegsylvanians. Also, that stoplight, two, three times a day.
- Which isn't to suggest giving-up.
- Who rules Oakland?
- Occupy, unions, NGOs and the peril of DC activism.
- Giving the people what they want.
- We're being heard, but who's listening?
- Occupy now part of the lexicon?
- What I was saying. And they pass on the price of the panopticon plus profit to you!
- The right way to engage.
- Grifter-on-grifter food-fight.
- Also, motherfucking Obama.
- Also, one motherfucking ambitious cracker.
- Also, motherfucking christers.
- Thank you for the Kind words.
- For the record, I want both Branko DeRossario and Dwayne Boskovic, I'm curious to see if it could work, cause I think it would.
- Unsurprisingly, predictably even, having written the paragraph above last night, I woke up with Mark Kozelek songs in my head.
CALLED INTO PLAY
Fall fell: so that's it for the leaf poetry: some flurries have whitened the edges of roads and lawns: time for that, the snow stuff: & turkeys and old St. Nick: where am I going to find something to write about I haven't already written away: I will have to stop short, look down, look up, look close, think, think, think: but in what range should I think: should I figure colors and outlines, given forms, say mailboxes, or should I try to plumb what is behind what and what behind that, deep down where the surface has lost its semblance: or should I think personally, such as, this week seems to have been crafted in hell: what: is something going on: something besides this diddledeediddle everyday matter-of-fact: I could draw up an ancient memory which would wipe this whole presence away: or I could fill out my dreams with high syntheses turned into concrete visionary forms: Lucre could lust for Luster: bad angels could roar out of perdition and kill the AIDS vaccine not quite perfected yet: the gods could get down on each other; the big gods could fly in from nebulae unknown: but I'm only me: I have 4 interests--money, poetry, sex, death: I guess I can jostle those. . . .