Motherfucking crackers. I didn't say it would be easy, much less possible, to rid myself of the joy! of hating motherfucking crackers even if I accept the kayfabe that my hating motherfucking crackers works directly against my interest in pissing off motherfucking capital. Here's kayfabe: my effort at rejecting the insidious charade of tribalism while moving towards a more universal kind, at this early stage, involves me hating my old team more, not hating the other team less.
- Distancing evil, searching for rescue.
- For your reading pleasure.
- From building tents to building monuments.
- Troublesome little thing called facts.
- Too big to fail is too big to ignore.
- Claremont McKenna, the anti-Gambier, cheats for prestige.
- I can't post every worthy tirade against Komen, so here's one.
- UPDATE! Sasha recommends this Marcotte post on Komen's cowardice.
- Florida primary: the post-nuclear aftermath.
- Ron Paul's manifesto?
- On Matt Taibbi's hopey-changy bad hair day.
- When Chuckie met Bobo.
- Beautiful dreamer.
- On obamapologists.
- It's been awhile, but FUCK RAHM EMANUEL.
- Belward Farm!
- A brief history of blurbs.
- Riff on Kindle Fire.
- Letters to middle-aged poets.
- Exene is 56 today.
THE BICAMERAL EYEBALL
No one noticed that it was midnight out.
The tools to make the tools were forthcoming.
It wasn’t so much that we were afraid of farting
as that other thieves had gotten wind of his maladdress.
She was startling in her new headdress.
Oodles of trolls performed the funeral litany—
hey, it wasn’t their turn at the foc’sle, so why
be perturbed ahead of time, and too late? The factory
whistle blew and released all the workers inside
who came crowding down along the pavement.
As though walking on stilts people blew up in amazement
like pieces of trash a wind desultorily lifts,
then returns for no visible reason. We were all tired
and happy, plodders on life’s great thoroughfare.
None of us were in it for the long haul, but paradoxically
all of us were, we just didn’t know it yet. But when I
looked over at her I could see why they meant sadness,
not from any bereavement, but growing like a stem
in otherwise barren ground. Oh, sure, there was plenty of majolica
on buffets in those days, chafing dishes with lids
to be lifted and then put back again. There were mild
pools in the woods far from any stream, and ant-size
buggies patrolling the slopes. Good thing for you
it was too. That they were there. Or just on the threshold
of being, like a dream. I told you not to be a gnat
about things, that sooner or later worrying would grow up
to become part of experience. It was just that you
seemed to believe me when I wasn’t being especially serious.
That, and the tens of revolutions to come. I say,
shall we go inside? The combination of rain and sunshine
always finds me defeated, and then other causes come along,
seeking attribution. Meanwhile if he matriculates
in one to ten years, who’s to say I’m not stodgy either?
It was all we could do, her and I, to keep from laughing
at his strife. Meanwhile the fire burned bright.
The maids grew petulant.
But I don’t care, really, none of us could
as long as time brings up the rear, placing a napkin,
folded just so, over the era and whatever it
thought it was up to. Now, doesn’t that make a lot of sense?