- Chesapeake, Sunday, Calvert Cliffs State Park.
- Kindness. I don't yodel about being Kind, motherfuckers, like I used to.
- Be Kind, motherfuckers.
- It's not a debate, it's a war.
- Clinton and Wall Street: we don't need transcripts.
- My Hillaryite Colleague won't admit it, trust me I goaded him, but part of him wants Sanders to win New York today. Dear Hillaryite Colleague, Sanders is not going to win. Yes! you're right, Democrats rigged the system, not only in New York but California, fuck, everywhere.
- My friend's apostasies are gonna be as anticlimactic and filled with self-loathing as all of ours.
- Dear Hillaryite Colleague: don't invest too much in Sanders.
- Dear Hillaryite Colleague: say to your Berniebro friends, Call me when Sanders says he will never support Clinton and will run as an independent.
- Dear Hillaryite Colleague: O, what the fuck, go ahead, embrace Sanders. You might as well get your Motherfucking Democrats apostasies out of the way too this cycle.
- This is, of course, totally anecdotal, but if you think Clinton Democrats wouldn't cheat.....
- Time to stock up.
- Your Fucking Washington Post. Here's the full article.
- Dan's got a review - A Flare for Criticism - in LARB!
- Lordy, it's googlebot crawl time. This..... sorta fascinates me. Why all the way back all over again, it can't just crawl the stuff posted since the last crawl?
- William Gass, post-post-everything writer. 2013, yes, posted yesterday at Mark's place, and again, Bless Serendipity: On Being Blue is one of four books I'm currently working.
- A bit late, but RIP Tony Conrad.
- BTW, here's Fabio's tribute show to Conrad.
- Here's what a dope I am: I hear that Hope Sandoval has a new song, think everyone will stop everything like I do to listen.
Every Wednesday when I went to the shared office
before the class on the comma, etc.,
there was on the desk, among
the notes from students aggrieved and belly-up
and memos about lack of funding
and the quixotic feasibility memos
and labyrinthine parking memos
and quizzes pecked by red ink
and once orange peels,
a claw hammer.
There when I came and there when I left,
it didn’t seem in anyone’s employ.
There was no room left to hang anything.
It already knew how to structure an argument.
It already knew that it was all an illusion
that everything hadn’t blown apart
because of its proximity to oblivion,
having so recently come from oblivion itself.
Its epiphyses were already closed.
It wasn’t my future that was about to break its wrist
or my past that was god knows where.
It looked used a number of times
not entirely appropriately
but its wing was clearly healed.
Down the hall was someone with a glove
instead of a right hand.
A student came by looking for who?
Hard to understand
then hard to do.
I didn’t think much of stealing it,
having so many hammers at home.
There when I came, there when I left.
Ball peen, roofing, framing, sledge, one
so small of probably only ornamental use.
That was one of my gifts,
finding hammers by sides of roads, in snow, inheriting,
one given by a stranger for a jump in the rain.
It cannot be refused, the hammer.
You take the handle, test its balance
then lift it over your head.