Here's Hamster's playlist, many thanks, for Miles Davis, born 86 years ago today, both above and below the fold. I've said before, I like but am not all that knowledgeable about jazz - there are only so many hours in a day, days in a life, choices are made. I can talk to you about poetry but not the theater, I can talk to you about novels but not movies. Anyway, when I opened the youtube below there was a fifteen second advertisement about the new Miller Lite can, you can punch a hole in the top of the can so the beer pours more smoothly. I guess the spiral in the aluminum bottle wasn't enough technology. Remember our fallen soldiers who died so we could enjoy such freedoms as Americans.
- How America remembers dead soldiers.
- Undeniable proof that Paul Krugman is a motherfucking moron.
- I get my info from the NYT.
- Why Corporate is unsustainable?
- Property, violence, anarchism.
- Motherfucking Obama.
- Motherfucking Democrats.
- Two guys in front of me last night in the grocery were yapping politics, one says to the other, if Obama loses you know he's gonna try to Grover Cleveland in 2016, which of course begs the thought experiment, what if?
- Breaking with motherfucking crackers.
- Police state.
- Police state.
- What the hell is going on in Quebec?
- Maple Spring.
- Jean Tinguely.
- I had given away both tickets for tonight's United game but one had to back out, so if you want to go you can have the ticket but I need to know by three at the very latest.
- Wait a minute: when did the Orioles bring back the truck stop hates with the cartoon bird?
- Just because he won't shut the fuck up doesn't mean you have to publish everything he says.
- Richard Ford has a new novel? I mean, no, it's not on my reading list, but once it might have been.
- Lacan's hairdresser.
- Performativity and poetry.
You can read almost anything
about angels, how they bite off
the heads first, copulate with tigers,
tortured Miles Davis until he stuck
a mute in his trumpet to torture them back.
The pornographic magazines ported
into the redwoods. The sweetened breath
of the starving. The prize livestock
rolls over on her larval young,
the wooden dwarf turning in the cogs
of the clockworks. I would have
a black bra hanging from the shower rod.
I would have you up against
the refrigerator with its magnets
for insurance agents and oyster bars.
Miracles, ripped thumbnails,
everything a piece of something else,
the frolicking despair of repeating
decimals because it never comes out even.
Mostly the world is lava’s rhythm,
the impurities of darkness
sometimes called stars. Mostly
the world is assignations, divorces
conducted between rooftops. Forever
and forever the checkbook unbalanced,
the beautiful bodies bent back
like paper clips, the discharged
blandishing cardboard signs by the exits.
Coppers and silvers and radiant traces,
gold flecks from our last brush,
brushfires. Always they’re espousing
accuracy when it’s accident, the arrow
not in the aimed-for heart but throat
that has the say. There are no transitions,