How many screenplays, plays, novels about Wikileaks and Julian Assange are being written as of now? Will be abandoned next week? How many minds has he changed, how many minds has he hardened?
I'm not saying Assange is an agent provocateur, I'm saying Corporate was ready for the inevitable Assange and had a clumsy but effective canned response. I'm not saying Assange doesn't make a important difference - last night I got into a screaming match with an old mentor who told me to go live in a refrigerator box, I'm such a motherfucking rebel, which is of course what I accuse myself of daily. The trouble with proselytizing your apostasy is that you bore the people who already had theirs and annoy the fuck out of people who haven't yet theirs.
- Century of the Self.
- On the above.
- Save yourself.
- On hope.
- Without consolation.
- A Bayesian take on Assange.
- UPDATE! More on Wikileaks.
- On Greenwald v CREW, first take, second take.
- UPDATE! Time Magazine's cowardly choice.
- Not a rallying cry.
- The madness of wealth.
- UPDATE! Status report 2010.
- Do progressives hate the rich?
- Prepare for struggle?
- Fucking shoot me.
- Mandating away problems.
- UPDATE! Have you seen this man?
- Dude, you OK? People worry.
- This fucker is going to be a major fucker for decades.
- MOCO fucks with the poor elderly to save mcmansionists tax money!
- Olde Towne!
- Books he'll never read.
- Books of the year.
- The year in poetry.
- Eleven best poetry books of 2010.
- How (not) to blog.
- Those are people who died.
- Those are people who died.
- Moving to Sandusky.
- Get me away, I'm dying.
- That teenage feeling.
- Not too soon.
- UPDATE! KATE BUSH!
- Wild Nothing.
- Comin' through.
- New song from Seb.
- Obscure Sound's Top 50 of 2010, 40-31, w/sound.
- Stream the new Ryan Adams? Remember when he was going to be big?
- Winter 2010. Sutra.
- Valerie? Valerie loves me.
INSEMINATING THE ELEPHANT
The zoologists who came from Germany
wore bicycle helmets and protective rubber suits.
So as not to be soiled by substances
that alchemize to produce laughter in the human species:
how does that work biochemically is a question
whose answer I have not found yet. But these are men
whose language requires difficult conjugations under any circumstance:
first, there's the matter of the enema, which ought to come
as no surprise. Because what the news brings us
is often wheelbarrows of dung - suffering,
with photographs. And so long as there is suffering
there should be also baby elephants - especially this messy,
headlamp-lit calling-forth. The problem lies
in deciding which side to side with: it is natural
to choose the giant rectal thermometer
over the twisted human form,
but is there something cowardly in that comic swerve?
Hurry and elephant
to carry the bundle of my pains,
another with shiny clamps and calipers
and the anodyne of laughter. So there, now I've alluded
to my body that grows ever more inert - better not overdo
lest you get scared; the sorrowing world
is way too big. How the zoologists start
is by facing the mirror of her flanks,
that foreboding luscious place where the gray hide
gives way to a zeroing-in of skin as vulnerable as an orchid.
Which is the place to enter, provided you are brave,
brave enough to insert your laser-guided camera
to avoid the two false openings of her "vestibule,"
much like the way of entering death, of giving birth to death,
calling it forth as described in the Tibetan Book.
And are you brave enough to side with laughter
if I face my purplish, raw reflection
and attempt the difficult entry of that chamber where
the seed-pearl of my farce and equally opalescent sorrow