I've collected links for a post but have nothing to say beyond the links, a song, a poem.
I am not going to engage in debating motherfucking Democrats with friends energized by the midterm elections and justifiably furious at Republicans for voter fraud in Georgia and Florida.
Last night looking at last year on blog to see if I'm missing any birthdays I thought, I don't want to do this any longer, or at least as often, as much, as clockwork.
Part of this no doubt the diminishing stats not just at me but everywhere as Blegsylvania continues to atrophy, I could also claim apathy but was taught apathy is a disease.
I have extra fucks to give now that I stopped spending all of them on flags and replica uniforms, my fucks bark let loose and bark in kennel, barkfuck fuckbark.
It occurs to me often that quiet might be the proper resistance to the noise, if not for anyone's sake but my own.
From 2014, noise when I think about shutting up, bigger at other place.
Andy Partridge, born sixty-five years ago today, XTC (& Dukes )
in innermost rotation of My Sillyass Deserted Island Five Game,
also notable: my collection was played at Earthgirl's request every
Kensington to Frederick to Hagerstown to Hancock to Cumberland to
Morgantown to Washington to Wheeling to Zanesville to and from Bamgier
to visit Planet at college, and (thank Baal for shuffle) each time
through better than the last.
An email sent yesterday about yesterday: Adding, like advil, Timicin.
Also too: Who leaked the galley of my Knausgaardian autonovel to you?
I bought White Music at Sights and Sounds in Gaithersburg, opposite Grace United Methodist Church at Walker and Frederick, 1977.
I can still replay in my head all 385 miles of Kensington to
Frederick to Hagerstown to Hancock to Cumberland to Morgantown to
Washington to Wheeling to Zanesville to Bamgier, I love much of the 385
miles of Kensington to Frederick to Hagerstown to Hancock to Cumberland
to Morgantown to Washington to Wheeling to Zanesville to Bamgier, I
never need to drive the 385 miles of Kensington to Frederick to
Hagerstown to Hancock to Cumberland to Morgantown to Washington to
Wheeling to Zanesville to Bamgier again.
TODAY'S SHITSTORM! (Psst. Trump was sulking plus afraid his hair
would get wet on live TV so stayed in hotel room, watched Fox, tweeted,
called in sick on big deal re: using dead soldiers as props for
Capitalist glories,
and while it's true if a Democratic POTUS did this every fuck
defending Trump would call for the Democratic POTUS to die slowly, cut
out his heart and let him watch it stop beating, please shut the front
door, they all have their scripts and a job to keep,
and I want my American POTUS to skip all commercials using dead soldiers as props for Capitalist glories, don't you?)
I never designated an Egoslavian Theme Song Nine, it's been years since I designated Theme Song Eight, would probably need do research to remember designated Egoslavian Theme Songs Three thru Eight, but ta-da, Egoslavian Theme Song Nine!
Q&A: INSURANCE
Alicia Ostriker
If time is an arrow, what is its target
If a Flexible Flyer is the sled I had as a child, when may I become a child again
Do you need help digging the potatoes out of your garden of insults
Do you plan to vote in the next election
Is our country headed in the right direction or the wrong direction
and what did the bulldozer tell the yellow helmet’s ear
Which part of your body is like biting into a ripe peach
which part shames you like a rotten banana
Would you like to find out how to lower your interest rate
When you go to heaven how old will you choose to be
will you have cocktails on the well-watered lawn
where Bach conducts Bach
Will you still chase after the Grateful Dead
Is your life like air leaking out of a balloon, or like rain falling on a pond
and how much professional Democrats hate him for saying this shit
not because it's true but because none of it will ever happen
even if professional Democrats wanted it to, which
Bernie certainly knows
(which explains why it's personal, the seething Bernie hate, to professional Democrats, who
can't? won't? triangulate why people like me seethe at them).
My eye meds make my eyes red, the new Library Grand Poobah asked my boss two tiers up if I'm a stoner, would like to be, but no.
So, a reminder (or, how did populism come to mean right-wing racism?): What does it tell us when liberals, faced with epic political
corruption, spectacular bank misbehavior, and towering inequality, take
that opportunity to declare war on populism? It tells us that
they’ve lost any sense of their own movement as an expression of the
vast majority. It tells us they have no idea why they believe they
should be entrusted with power in the first place. And it reminds us
that their particular brand of class-based self-delusion is a luxury
that the rest of us can ill afford.
I caught myself thinking of changing this blog's background, layout, colors, going white like the other place, caught myself thinking of just moving to other place, talked myself down by recognizing any decision I make in a fit of seething I make because it feels good.
ALBUM: A RUNTHRU
Clark Coolidge
I look in that one kind of dwindled. And in this,
look up, a truncheon in my fist, tin pot
on my head, the war. My father, I’m looking at, is my
age then and thin, his pants streak to the ground,
shadows of rosevines . . . His father sits beneath
a cat. Here the shadow has more flavor than my
trains, elbows on livingroom floor, bangs that
curl, opera broadcast, The Surreptitious Adventures of
Nightstick. I lie in the wind of the sun and hear
toots and smell aluminium smoke. The tiny oval
of my mother’s youth in back and the rest is dark.
Sundays, the floor was black. At the beach, here
I’m a nest of seaweed, an earlier portrait of
surrealists I saw later, a stem of grey what
rises from my scalp. My hair is peaked in brine.
And this here hat, dark green fedora over same green
corduroy suit for a trip to the nation’s capitol,
how far askance I’ve been since and never another
hat. Cromium rods, the hand in the guide’s pocket
seems far removed. Blurry shoes on sandstone steps,
double and over exposed. Then in this one the SECRET
points to my head, shaved, and emblem, OPEN, striped
in “pirate” T-shirt and HERE IT IS. My elbow bent,
upright this time, behind a pole. I had yet to
enter at this snap the cavern beneath my sneakers.
To the right my soles protrude from beneath a boulder,
for I had trapped my mother and she asked Why.
Taken. Given. Flashlight brighter than my face,
another grotto, where the ball of twine, indirection,
gave out but we never got very far in, Connecticut.
I swim out of another cave in a further frame, cramped
gaze of sunlit days, apparel forgot. Later I reel
in a yell as my cousin takes a bite from my shank
beneath ranchhouse breezy curtains of Marion. On a trudge up
from the gasoline rockpit in the gaze of Judy Lamb,
she carries my pack, my jeans rolled as I step on
a pipe. Estwing in hand and svelte as only youthful can.
Most of those rocks remain and she married a so-so
clarinetist. My greygreen zipper jacket leans against
a concrete teepee, my father looking bullchested stands
before. Perhaps we had just argued. Central Park cement
steps of pigeons, the snow removed. Overexposed
whiteshirt at the drums, stick fingers ride cymbal
at the camera raised, livingroom Brenton with orange
& black “sea” wallpaper and orange&black tubs. I wore
a wristwatch then and never again, drumtime hitching
me past it. I graduate from highschool in white dinner
jacket and diploma and frown, too many hot shadows
back of the garage. Must roll up the bedroll with
skinny arms and lam for the caves. Dave & A. Bell by
the Ford Company Squire first time allowed alone to tool
Bleak grass scapes of Knox farm. Rope down a crack,
mosquitoes and Koolade, sun dapple leaf moss sandwiches, ache.
Then in this group more drums on the roof, the gravel
and the flat, a cover attempt for no album even thought.
I tap and step in the dim known street. Lean on a
chimney to inhabit the sky, deep with drops. Here
I’m pressed on a wall of Tennessee limes, stones-throw
from mouth of the underground we camped in. Too many
thoughts, elide. Then lie on a beach in a doughnut
pattern shirt with a stick, a pipe?, in my mouth as my
cousin grins shiny beyond. Truro, also waiting for the
caves. With the poets then I’m fat and the driveway is
dark, the clapboards all white in a day of all talk.
This then all ends in color, my red bandana and shirt out
on Devil’s Pulpit, open hand addressed to the grey
where Hawthorne and Melville now view of a highschool.
While the water still spills, and the cat squints at leaves
blown, my father wears Brahms, families lean in on one
for a group shot, and the rock remains shattered in a star.
Fleabus two nights ago, above life-sized at other place.
Theory: Now Trump has an actual foil instead of making foils up, we only think we've seen shitty Trump, and it'll work.
UPDATE! Today's Trump takeover of Justice, for instance.
Grim irony: This midterm result was the worst possible one for the Democrats, and
thus for the United States. They did just enough to be able to continue
to claim that the Clintonista methodology - the 'donor' model - is a
successful, winning one, and so they won't have to change it. They
won't be able to gum up Trump's agenda completely - enough of them are
really covert
Republicans and will vote for many of his policies - and they will make
fools of themselves with Russiagate and similar guaranteed losing
attacks on Trump personally, which will ensure Trump's reelection.
Still, as usual the voters did their job as best they could, with the
wonderful first-past-the-post voting system allowing their collective
wisdom exactly the choice they wanted, the best choice available to them
when one of the parties has thrown in the towel, reining in Trump while
not emasculating him.
Driving home from Catoctin past Sunday, car radio tuned to WTOP for 270 traffic on the eights, I heard top of the hours ABC News, sound clips, Trump bullhorning hate, Joe Biden whispering a sermon on motherfucking civility.
Yesterday was Peter Hammill's 70th birthday, I forgot, was about to update the annual post monologue with songs and links to lots of songs because I talked with Bavid D by phone this past summer, I typed the gone first version of this sentence, which mentioned Bavid D and the phone call into this blooooooooooooooger post, and (this is true and this post is about faith) three minutes later my phone vibrates and:
:
I am telling you three times, faith if not fucked wouldn't be faith.
and one I didn't write about a freak thunderstorm hit while miles from car, was actually hair-raising, the lightning.
We have hiked it without harm or fright dozens of times and will again, though perhaps go for remoter on the first weekend of November when many people - I say this without snark - spend one of their few days in the woods a year because of the leaves.
Leaves down, turned brown, fell, bad leaf season, all the rain, I heard a park ranger say.
Fine metaphors abound.
When Wednesday gets here and everyone who lost says the other candidate cheated remember which party stocked, is stocking, will continue to stock judicial seats and which party did, is doing, and will continue to let that party do so with barely a whisper, and then ask why.
Winter woods are prettiest but shouldn't be winter woods the first weekend of November.
Beyond inciting team spirit before a big game, embittering poor white males who can't get laid an outstanding recruitment tool for the private police that will enforce your obedience now that elite have decided mall cops are cheaper than paying you your social security,
Mococop hiring ads airing on WTOP during morning drive, DC
A poem from the Bomb Squad poem from just a little girl a never-written poem about a lost poem a final poem about the last poem no two people agree on the same poem the same green the same poke a true sock whatever the subject you leave a hole for the poem you'll be back later for the only poem that remains what the poem says is not what it's talking about a fatal fall from the bridge of the poem only the poem people are looking for the price? one spend poem a single ball of meat complex twist of a cracker I once saw a poem alone in the sun never had much fun after
