Wednesday, December 7, 2011


Marched from McPherson Square down 15th Street to 1001 G St, the headquarters of The Podesta Group. Cops blocked entrance, of course, but word is some vanguards got in.

Marched back to McPherson Square and ran into Union protesters. Occupied K and 16th, K and 15th, K and 14th. I left about 120 for obligations I couldn't shirk; I'd love to be there now video witnessing. I have feeling there will be more opportunities.

Watch live. Or here.

Lots to think about, including that shit on the right who wasn't the only fucker in lobbyist suites to find derisive amusement in the march, though she was the fucking shittiest. Much much more tomorrow. Or not.

We Should All Have to Spend at Least Once Decade Carving What We Mean Into Stone

CD got hold of an email outlining K Street's concern about today's march. Snippet:

Washington, DC is now becoming a focus point for Occupy-related protests now that other cities have cracked down on the tent cities and the criminal mischief associated with the Occupy movement. Other than frigid Boston, Washington is the only City that continues to allow the Occupy tent cities to continue without disruption... The key day is Wednesday, December 7th when the group plans to "swarm" from K Street 14th Street to 22nd Street throughout the day. They intend to enter the buildings (and possibly the tenant spaces) of buildings containing lobbying firms, law firms which lobby or represent corporate interests, Buildings housing healthcare tenants, oil tenants, insurance tenants, bank tenants, or drug company tenants would also be targets of this group. In other words, just about every building on K Street is a potential target. Further, I would not rely on the logistics parameters supplied by the protest organizers. If you have a building with tenants in the target groups anywhere in the City, I would take the same precautions that we are suggesting for the K street buildings. In fact, regardless of your tenant base, if your facility is in the vicinity of the protesters, they may enter your building if they cannot get into their buildings of choice and you present an easier target.

Criminal mischief! I'll post photos here tonight and Thursday morning!

I made it to 2:03 of this bout in Grifter Championship Shitwrestling (h/t):

  • Just so we're clear, here's a truth: I don't actually sing or chant at United games unless it's for a particular player at a particular moment. I stand and sway, stand and bitch, stand and jump, stand and spin and slam my hands into my orange seat, stand and clap at good play, stand and scream at the ref, stand and scream at the other team, stand and really scream at United fucking up, stand and scream at Landru and Ilse and SeatSix and at some sloppy drunk axe-murderer in the row in front of us, and if I'm blessed, three, four times a year I make a primal sound at a beautiful goal that is gloriously purgative and curative, but I don't sing or chant because I have to hate you to sing or chant for you, I've the worst voice in the world. People can vouch for all of this.
  • Plus I'm not a revolutionary, which is true, but not why I'm not chanting.
  • Plus, I'm in for K St, can't make the White House or SCOTUS.
  • Occupy San Francisco evicted.
  • America justice.
  • Speaking of grifters.
  • On the above.
  • Another flavor of shock doctrine.
  • Pot calling the kettle FOX.
  • As for United, thank you Tommy Wells, and fuck-me-jig, DC United - this DC United, not a second Senators United - will never get a new soccer stadium in Washington DC.
  • There are few thing stupider than the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
  • Obscure Sound's 40-31
  • Yes, more Bonnie Prince Billy.


Dara Wier

As far as you're concerned,
To sentimentalize your feelings about someone retrospectively,
Your sentiments exactly,
To realize you failed to feel something you should have,
You might have said so yourself,
To feel a realization as a physical sensation,
Aggravation comes in many colors,
To sentimentalize your feelings about someone retrospectively,
Your life depended on something you failed to feel adequately,
What were you doing while your life sped by like, oh, a speeding bullet—
To mutter about a battered book you read at sixteen,
To feel a realization as a physical sensation,
Tell me more about your understanding of our collective humanity
To react retroactively, to forgive everything,
To acquiesce like a dead sponge does,
To know how it feels to be erased by someone who's mattered
To murder your others on account of your brokenness,
You don't hear a lot about the families of hermits,
You don't run into many bands of anchorites.
Run of the mill stories about men, women, and children
Don't feel sufficient when their occasion is verbatim.
Tell me about the most recent mill you've crept up on.
Tell me more about your feelings of our value.
Verbatim is such a physical word. Like a rubber mallet.
Tell me how much you once loved me, that will surely
Solve all of the puzzles. One of the best things about putting
Anything into words—instantaneous acknowledgement
Of the relative good it will do you, to make it appear to be
Static when that is impossible, we should all have to spend at least one
Decade carving what we think we mean into stone,
That might engender a little mindful, severe silence,
Don't waste your words was often or always tossed at me,
We have degraded our trajectory, we have spiraled into the vortices of despondency,
Such a sad sorry, my beloved also watched me sideways, we were a
Pack of mis-used curs squabbling amongst ourselves in agony.
The one who most looked like a generic human baby in the body
Of a feral puppy, that was the one to be most remembered,
And repulsed by, fear and repulsion are emotional cousins,
Emotions in general do exist to be tangled, it is a wonder
We ever find ourselves out of troubled waters, that is an expression
I will spend all day sorting, and while I'm at it, searching for the famous oil
That often goes with it.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

It's an Inevitable Verbal Tic -- Wouldn't You Say? -- For a Super-Clean Country

Screams a headline in today's YFWP:

In race for campaign funds from billionaires, Romney outpaces Obama.


Linh Dinh

You (almost) never see it in public so
You have to conjure it up all day long,
Drag it into every conversation,
To flesh out the corporate picture.

It's an inevitable verbal tic -- wouldn't you say? --
For a super-clean country.

Holy shit, that shit's wack.
She thinks she's hot shit but she ain't dogshit.
There's nothing but shit on the internet.
Why are you so hung up on shit like that?
I got some good shit at home, some far-out shit.
You're so full of shit, you dumbshit motherfucker.

Monday, December 5, 2011


Jeebusfuck, I love that song. This one too: some motherfucker disabled it. This one too: youtube used to have the actual promovid, but some motherfucker removed it. This one too: youtube used to have the actual promovid, but some motherfucker removed it. Anyway, in a certain mood, this radio set plays in my head. LOUD! yo.

That too. Also, work, me, you, and Tino Quaranta. Also, too. This too:

this is ridiculous said the dog now they not only have to walk me they have to rush up with their sanitary plastic bags what is it but old-fashioned Imperialism

I swear I had not seen this until last night when I wrote Saturday evening about my inability to use language yet for what I want to say about Occupy (h/t):

Our language has not yet caught up with the political phenomenon that is emerging in Zuccotti Park and spreading across the nation, though it is clear that a political paradigm shift is taking place before our very eyes. It’s time to begin to name and in naming, to better understand this moment. So let me propose some words: “political disobedience.”

I didn't hear about the police action at McPherson Square until past six last night; I was on Sugarloaf. I would have been there taking photos if I'd known, but let me be clear: I would have done everything in my power, including moving the fuck out of the way if a cop in riot gear told me to get the fuck out of the way, to avoid arrest, not only because I owe too many creditors too much money, not only because I'm only pissed at potentially losing privileges I assumed were mine by birthright, not only because I believe in the uselessness of protest to genuinely alter the re-feudalization now inevitable by and out of control of our bankrupt warlords' craven greed (I do believe in the usefulness of the protests to further accelerate the implementation of our bankrupt warlords' daydreams of police state), but all three plus I can't find the language to imagine any other outcome than the slow and grim and inevitable re-feudalization.


Alicia Ostriker

This is ridiculous
said the literary old woman
nobody gives us any respect
the young in one another's arms
are talking on their ipods
the politicians are lying through their teeth
and our husbands are taking a nap

this is ridiculous
said the tulip
all those genetically altered blossoms
those stupid long-lived orchids
that are practically plastic
and those fancy designer grasses
getting more market share

this is ridiculous
said the dog
now they not only have to walk me
they have to rush up with their
sanitary plastic bags
what is it but old-fashioned

Sunday, December 4, 2011

Fine Cobwebs Did Support the Frame

I like some Philip Glass much and some not at all; as I said to (don't fear) the griper, there's plenty of better shit that he'd hate more, adding, I try every fucking day! The post was more responding to Glass' participation in that Occupy moment and what it might signify, I was using my playbook of self-serving swerves, the playbook that allows me to live in reflexive minor self-scourging peace through whining on my shitty blog about my complicity's palette, how I'll poke it but not change it, which is to say I still haven't found the language to express how at best, with human's involved, the plus/minus ratio between more or less shitty at .06%, why I still invest more than wishful idolatry towards a mythical ideal as proof of some moral superiority though such investment is proof both for and against such ideals. Why always me?


George Herbert

Love built a stately house, where Fortune came,
And spinning fancies, she was heard to say
That her fine cobwebs did support the frame,
Whereas they were supported by the same;
But Wisdom quickly swept them all away.

The Pleasure came, who, liking not the fashion,
Began to make balconies, terraces,
Till she had weakened all by alteration;
But reverend laws, and many a proclomation
Reforméd all at length with menaces.

Then entered Sin, and with that sycamore
Whose leaves first sheltered man from drought and dew,
Working and winding slily evermore,
The inward walls and summers cleft and tore;
But Grace shored these, and cut that as it grew.

Then Sin combined with death in a firm band,
To raze the building to the very floor;
Which they effected,--none could them withstand;
But Love and Grace took Glory by the hand,
And built a braver palace than before.

Saturday, December 3, 2011

I’ve Also Been Pardoned Miraculously for Years by the Lava of Chance which Runs Down the World’s Gullies, Silting Us Back

That busted my sour mood, though, also, remember when some UC-Davis cop walked up and down a sitting line of student protesters and peppered-sprayed them and it caused a burp of dramatic pro-Occupy sentiment and created a (we thought) toxic meme as did the University president's perp-walk? Me too! Decades ago.


GROUP A - Poland, Greece, Russia, Czech Republic
GROUP B - Netherlands, Denmark, Germany, Portugal
GROUP C - Spain, Italy, Republic of Ireland, Croatia
GROUP D - Ukraine, Sweden, France, England

Sure, fuck Denmark.

Also, I commented on myself how stupidly evil is the ritual turkey-pardoning POTUS photo-op and SHAZAM! I'm driving around last night, click to WETA to hear what shitty Haydn or Mozart they're playing, and the voice-over actor masquerading as classical DJ says, WETA is also sponsored by George Washington's Mount Vernon, which invites you to a candlelight Christmas - music, party favors, and meet the pardoned Thanksgiving turkey! Jeebusfuck, shoot me, but as always, awed nods of faith towards Serendipity.

Also: watch George Pakled and She Is As Shitty As the World's Shittiest Human try to draw the long knives against Gingrichgasm:


William Meredith

Je vois les effroyables espaces de l’Univers qui m’enferment, et je me trouve attaché à un coin de cette vaste étendue, sans savoir pourquoi je suis plutôt en ce lieu qu’en un autre, ni pourquoi ce peu de temps qui m’est donné à vivre m’est assigné à ce point plutôt qu'à un autre de toute l’éternité qui m’a précédé, et de toute qui me suit.

Pensées sur la religion

The approach of a man’s life out of the past is history, and the approach of time out of the future is mystery. Their meeting is the present, and it is consciousness, the only time life is alive. The endless wonder of this meeting is what causes the mind, in its inward liberty of a frozen morning, to turn back and question and remember. The world is full of places. Why is it that I am here?

—Wendell Berry,
The Long-Legged House

Spared by a car or airplane crash or
cured of malignancy, people look
around with new eyes at a newly
praiseworthy world, blinking eyes like these.

For I’ve been brought back again from the
fine silt, the mud where our atoms lie
down for long naps. And I’ve also been
pardoned miraculously for years
by the lava of chance which runs down
the world’s gullies, silting us back.
Here I am, brought back, set up, not yet
happened away.

                     But it’s not this random
life only, throwing its sensual
astonishments upside down on
the bloody membranes behind my eyeballs,
not just me being here again, old
needer, looking for someone to need,
but you, up from the clay yourself,
as luck would have it, and inching
over the same little segment of earth-
ball, in the same little eon, to
meet in a room, alive in our skins,
and the whole galaxy gaping there
and the centuries whining like gnats—
you, to teach me to see it, to see
it with you, and to offer somebody
uncomprehending, impudent thanks.

Friday, December 2, 2011

When You Consider the Abundance of Such Resource as Illuminates the Glow-Blue Bodies and Gold-Skeined Wings of Flies Swarming the Dumped Guts of a Natural Slaughter or the Coil of Shit and in No Way Winces from Its Storms of Generosity

Jeebusfuck, I'm busy, angry, frustrated, strung-out, empty, bursting to nothing, sad, manic, enervated, wired, anxious, aarghful, and then oddly serene for sporadic seconds at a time, plus there is terrible news for one of my Thursday Night Pint buds, so fast easy rage today for multiple reasons, then links, poem, songs:

GOP hopeful Newt Gingrich defended his stance against certain child labor laws during a campaign stop in Iowa Thursday, saying that children born into poverty aren’t accustomed to working unless it involves crime.
“Really poor children, in really poor neighborhoods have no habits of working and have nobody around them who works so they have no habit of showing up on Monday,” Gingrich claimed.
“They have no habit of staying all day, they have no habit of I do this and you give me cash unless it is illegal,” he added.

The lead headline, as I type this, at Your Fucking Washington Post:

Newt Gingrich as president could turn the White House into an ideas factory


A.R. Ammons

When you consider the radiance, that it does not withhold
itself but pours its abundance without selection into every
nook and cranny not overhung or hidden; when you consider

that birds' bones make no awful noise against the light but
lie low in the light as in a high testimony; when you consider
the radiance, that it will look into the guiltiest

swervings of the weaving heart and bear itself upon them,
not flinching into disguise or darkening; when you consider
the abundance of such resource as illuminates the glow-blue

bodies and gold-skeined wings of flies swarming the dumped
guts of a natural slaughter or the coil of shit and in no
way winces from its storms of generosity; when you consider

that air or vacuum, snow or shale, squid or wolf, rose or lichen,
each is accepted into as much light as it will take, then
the heart moves roomier, the man stands and looks about, the

leaf does not increase itself above the grass, and the dark
work of the deepest cells is of a tune with May bushes
and fear lit by the breadth of such calmly turns to praise.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

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

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.


A.R. Ammons

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. . . .