Had a pint with two friends last night - HEY! did you know that the Republican committee on Benghazi exists solely to damage Hillary Clinton's political prospects! It's true! Two Republicans even admitted it! Who knew?
Fucking shoot me. As I type this there are 389 days, 9336 hours, 560160 minutes, 33609600 seconds until POTUS DAY 2016. I almost watched the Democratic debate. Fuck me.
I write this in part so I don't write about work - as in not even in tablet - though work is what compels me to write something these days.
Fleabus photo by Planet last weekend. Woke up with Dog Faced Hermans in my head.
- To judge from my friends, the GOP, and the base it panders to, is doing an excellent job motivating the -.06 Less Shittiers for POTUS 16.
- The presidential mirror.
- Advertising in the time of import substitution.
- In Vietnam they killed the child Jesus.
- The scent of ink on paper.
- Coming in from the cold: homeless in Santa Fe.
- Frank O'Hara and the "open poetry" debate.
- Commentary on commentary.
- The poetry of stuff vs the poetry of knowledge.
THE SONG OF THE DEMENTED PRIEST
I put those things there.—See them burn.
The emerald the azure and the gold
Hiss and crack, the blues & greens of the world
As if I were tired. Someone interferes
Everywhere with me. The clouds, the clouds are torn
In ways I do not understand or love.
Licking my long lips, I looked upon God
And he flamed and he was friendlier
Than you were, and he was small. Showing me
Serpents and thin flowers; these were cold.
Dominion waved & glittered like the flare
From ice under a small sun. I wonder.
Afterward the violent and formal dancers
Came out, shaking their pithless heads.
I would instruct them but I cannot now,—
Because of the elements. They rise and move,
I nod a dance and they dance in the rain
In my red coat. I am the king of the dead.