- I had ordered Youngs Inside the Future last year and then promptly misplaced the CD a day after it arrived, guess what I found last night.
- I'm now in my cycle at the stage when a radio commercial (this one played each half inning on Nationals' baseball radio) becomes an overblown metaphor of everyone and everything pissing me off: Budweiser (says the over-baritoned masculine voiceover). Brewed the hard way, not the easy way. With twelve breweries across the country we're not small, we're large. Budweiser, the famous (baritone drops for emphasis) AMERICAN (enunciate) lager, not backing down since (whatever the fuck year they use), the Dutch-owned fucks.
- I had never seen a Budweiser brewery until Planet went to college in Ohio and we were on the Columbus Beltway, north side, it's a fucking factory.
- Hyperstitional Gazer of Futurity. I kinda agree.
- Starhawking the privilege game.
- Hillary's Courtiers: on Meritocracy.
- Bill Clinton to Millennials: You are everything wrong with this country, vote for Hillary.
- On the ▲ Clintons as cyborgs.
- Survive, resist, endure. Bringing Native Women's Struggle to Life on Stage.
- Also too ▲ Changing the Law One Show at a Time.
- Under the painted staircase.
- The rhetoric of tweeting.
- >> Deleted bleggalgaze re: why I value weekend posts / see post title <<
- On Zeitgeist, postscript. Also too re: 80s by way of Prince.
- This week in water.
- It's Rockville, not Potomac, WaPo assholes.
- The above and below Youngs songs are the only two I could find on youtube, the bottom song from an earlier album.
- More Youngs' songs here.
- >> Deleted bleggalgaze re: fine metaphors abounding as bleggal keystone <<
- Cassandra Canary Weathervane Fool. I had to stop and think about it when I remembered something like that once. (See the last line of the Wright poem below to see what reminded me - hell, the whole poem.) No reunion tour planned.
- >> Deleted bleggalgaze re: fuck me. <<
- Just ordered Shallcross, C.D. Wright's first posthumous book of new poems submitted for pub before her death. I swear I only read about the new book today though I've been reading Wright the past six months (started before she died on me, Fuck 2016): the poem yesterday and one syllables was Wright-inspired. I haven't blossomed an infatuation with anyfuckingthing in I can't remember...
- Ask me nice - if I like you I can turn you on to some Wright.
SELF-PORTRAIT ON A ROCKY MOUNT
I am the goat. Caroline by name. Nee 6, January. Domesticated
since the 6th century before Jesus, a goat himself.
We have served as a source of meat, leather, milk, and hair.
Our flesh is not widely loved. Yet our younger, under parts
make fine gloves.
Out of our hair - pretty sweaters, wigs for magistrates. Our
milk is good for cheese.
We share these gifts with Richard Milhous Nixon, who gained
national prominence for his investigation of Mr Hiss.
We're no sloth, full-time workers a the minimum wage,
We had an annual income last year of $6,968, a little less than
your average subway musician.
Our horoscope assures - we will be a great success socially
and in some artistic calling.
We are sure-footed, esp. on hills. We live on next-to-nothing.
This week's victuals: ironing board covers and swollen paperbacks.
Our small hills of filings fall under the heading of useful by-products.
This we call Industrial Poetry. Both of us being Bearded, Mystic,