- That's ▲ partially a response to my guilt over disloyalty to old tablet by my too sloppy love of new tablet, though I actually cut this page out of old tablet for square, so I honor old tablet by returning to old tablet but desecrate old tablet to make this poem. Fine metaphors abound.
- First wash over here.
- Now you know why I stopped the constant wishing for Obama to have to pick a potential swing Scotus in an election cycle. I understand the political logic - motherfucking political logic gives Obama cover for picking the Corporate-approved motherfucker he would have picked all along, would have chosen now with a filibuster-proof Democratic majority Senate.
- Bernie approves of the Corporate-approved motherfucker. See above.
- A Bernie pep-talk. He's dead, Jim.
- Fred Hiatt says ignore democracy to save democracy.
- The worst of all worlds.
- The Washington Post is very upset you fucking peasants aren't respecting the kabuki.
- Trump breaks kayfabe - that's his appeal.
- We are already ruled by monsters.
- Meanwhile, in Berlin.
- In the Fun House.
- Disaster capitalism & Syria.
- The responsibility of radicals.
- Secret station.
- An article on Dickinson and Crispy. We visited Dickinson when Planet was checking out colleges, too preppy, too Greek, for her. She liked Gettysburg though!
- A small, quiet, possibly incorrect, thought.
- A new PJ Harvey song and DC's Ward Seven.
- Bonnie Prince Billy interview.
- Prussian Blue (w Glenn Gould playing Brahms).
- Look at this. Please. It's amazing.
- Hey, if you're a friend of Landru, go here, throw some coin to help his son Jack on a worthwhile project.
- Dead covers?
- Architecture of Language 1979-1982 (or, why early Pere Ubu today).
- Pere Ubu/all David Thomas projects - reminder - one of two permanent spots on My Sillyass Deserted Island Five Game.
The last time I saw father alive he was using
a black umbrella, closed, to beat off some pigeons
hanging outside the marble portals of a museum.
We were visitors, walking very slowly, so father
could stoop and examine everything. We had not been
in the museum, but were resting on its steps.
We saw it all—the fountains, the statues, the parks
and the post office. Cities are made of such things.
Once we encountered a wedding coming out of the cathedral
and were caught in a shower of rice; as the bride
flicked her veiled head father licked his little finger
and in this way saved a grain. On the next block
he announced he was going to heaven. But first let’s
go back to the hotel and rest, he said: I want my mint.
Those were practically his last words. And what did I want
more than anything in the world? Probably the ancient Polish
recipe for blood soup, which was finally told to me
in an empty deli in a deserted mill town in western Massachusetts
by the owner’s mother, who was alone one day when I burst
in and demanded a bowl. But, she said, lacing her fingers
around a jar of morello cherries, it requires one cup of
new blood drawn from the goose whose neck you’ve just wrung
to put in the pot, and where in these days can I find
anything as fresh as that? I had lost track of my life
before, but nothing prepared me for the onslaught of
wayfarer’s bliss when she continued to list, one
by one, the impossible ingredients I needed to live.
We sat at the greasy table far into the night, while
snow fell on the locked doors of the church next door,
dedicated to St. Stanislas, which was rumored to be
beautiful inside, and contain the remains of his beloved head.