This past Monday or Tuesday I was so over-stimulated by my attempts to avoid clusterfuck stimulation that I tweeted a link to a Bill Kristol column declaring Obama's deal with Iran is the lowest moment in American history, easily eclipsing two hundred years of slavery and the genocide of Native Americans, when all I meant to do was post the youtube address of the above new Yo La Tengo cover of The Cure's Friday.
- Last night I was so over-stimulated by my attempts to avoid clusterfuck stimulation I resorted to cellos, Ligeti's Sonata in particular.
- Paradox Lost.
- Short secretary tells tall tales.
- Thoughts on an alternative history.
- Four maladies of global capitalism.
- Survival after hope.
- For some reason (which I can't go into here, but think chicken on the bus) I thought about the final MASH episode, and it occurred to me (and I verified) that Klinger and Miles O'Brien married the same woman.
- Re-admitting eternity (Ceravolo, for those of you who do).
- Robert Kelly, for those of you who do.
- I used to believe that I sincerely wished to opt out of over-stimulation from the clusterfuck.
- However, I am going to opt out of the over-stimulation re: Coates.
- Kidding. Dig this.
- Nothing - nothing - can make me read David Brooks letter to Coates.
- Click Ligeti and Feldman tags for much more, yo.
- Last night I was so over-stimulated by my attempts to avoid clusterfuck stimulation that after I resorted to cellos, Ligeti's Sonata in particular, still over-stimulated (you see - and this is duh, of course, it's the duh that over-stimulates me - a Muslim shooting marines is terrorism, a white male shooting black people is a lone crazed gunman), I turned to Feldman (which almost worked).
Having to make eye contact
with the economy—
A ball cap that says
In Dog Years I’m Dead—“The moon
will turn blood red and then
disappear for awhile,” the TV enthused. Hunched
over an anatomy textbook, a student
traces a heart
over another heart—lunar eclipse.
In the bathroom, crayoned
fuck the ♥
He collected CAPTCHA, one seat over,
Mr. feverish Mange Denied:
like puzzling sabbath or
street pupas; we shared
some recent typos: I’m
mediated (his), my tiny bots
of stimulation, he
loved the smudged
and swoony words that proved him
not a machine trying to infiltrate
of the New York Times, from which he launched
(gad shakes or hefty lama)
obits and exposés, some recipes, a digital pic of someone else’s
black disaster, he
lobbed links at both of his fathers (step and bio)
a few former lovers, a high school coach, a college chum,
“from where I used to work,” so much info
(we both agreed), “The umbra,”
the TV explained, shadow
the earth was about to make—
...and if during the parenthesis they felt a strange uneasiness...
...firing rifles and clanging copper pots to rescue the threatened...
...so benighted and hopelessly lost...
...their eyes to the errors...
MOON LORE, Farmer’s Almanac. Waiting room,
Urgent Care. That was pretty
multivalent. As in:
We really need you to take care of this.
We really need you
to care for this.
To care about this. We really need you
to peer through the clinic’s
storefront window, on alert
for the ballyhooed moon—
And there it was. Reddening
in its black sock, deep
in the middle of the hour, of someone’s
nutso-tinsel talk on splendor—
My fevered friend. Describing
the knocked-out flesh. Each of our heads
fitting like a flash drive
into the port of a healer’s hands.