Unappeasably Inventive Flow of "Fuck Fuck Motherfuck" Ecstasy that Maybe He Imagines the Neighborhood Can't Hear? -

     

• For your consideration: Boycott the ACLU. (and a follow-up of sorts)
• I confess, I've always been a lazily self-examined First Amendment absolutist.
• That I would let an asshole threaten me in ways an asshole would make illegal me to him was one moral flower stalk of my even more lazily self-examined years as a ticket-voting Democrat. 
• May be keystone of my once rote adherence to the just less shitty theory for winning next season's Spigot Authority in a Failing Kleptocracy.
• That and fealty to good manners and decorum as false markers of moral civility.
• If the people people are doxxing were being doxxed by the people they are doxxing many of the people cheering the people who are doxxing would be apoplectic.
• Just saying, when turnabout occurs, temper my apoplexy with some honest self-awareness.
• On both-sides-do-it-ism. Not always, but sometimes.
• Taney Chain. No, it doesn't rhyme. Marylanders know.

• Colin Moulding is 62 today. XTC is in the innermost circle of bands/musicians that rotate in and out of the two open spots in My Sillyass Deserted Island Five Game, have been for thirty-five years, and if I prefer on the whole and by more than a smidgen Andy Partridge songs to Colin Moulding songs  that doesn't mean I don't love Colin Moulding songs.
• Inferno: Circle of Capitalists.
• On taking down statues.
• The sudden fall of the last Confederate soldier.
• Would you like a nice progressive punch?
• Centrism: the problem, not the solution.
• On changing directions in real life.
• Cosmic co-dependency.
• A (not mine) bleggalgaze.
• The art of narrating ourselves into being.
• The ecstasy of capitulation.
• When ecstasy is inconvenient.

VESSEL

Tom Sleigh

Branching the way blind fingers splay across

The face they’re reading, trees trace the backyard

Ditch sop that their shadows drop off into

Space,

           an abyss where I hear a neighbor boy’s

Voice cursing an exhilarated, out of its mind,

   

          Unappeasably inventive flow of

“Fuck fuck motherfuck” ecstasy that maybe

He imagines the neighborhood can't hear?—

                                                               or is his tongue wired

To some source of inspired but as yet unknown

Intelligence that radiates from all of us and he

   

          Is its mouthpiece, speaking it to the trees

That screen him from me listening to his

Unrelenting arias, predestined like birdsong

Flowing unbidden, of four-letter almost

Erotic keening over something I know too,

   

          Everybody knows?—

                                       and even if all it is

Is the “fuck fuck motherfuck” ecstasy

Of April budding in his mouth and sending down

Roots to some anti-self that sprouts and shadows

Him as it croons and shouts the song of its difference—

   

          Even then, this Billy whom I don’t think twice about

When we meet in the alley and slap palms

Or I see him playing alone on the swings of big kids’ slide,

Even then is he the vessel

                                          of some signal that uses us,

Down in the abyss irradiating him so that just this instant

   

          Whatever that other uses him for he can’t resist:

His voice an instrument of blissed-out torment

Until that grip flings him loose—

Who knows which of us it chooses to penetrate

Next, making us suddenly sweat or shiver,

   

That influence bathing everything budding

                                                             in profane rays.