If You Would Recover, You Have to Get Over the Shattered Autos in the Backwoods Lot to that Bridge in the Darkness Where the Sentinels Stand Guarding the Border with Their Half-Slung Rifles, Warned of the Likes of You

To honor F9U1C1K I slept in until eight in the morning, remarkably late for me, but I'd stayed up past midnight watching United beat Goats USA the night before. After I made coffee I wrote a post about the game (and I reiterate: fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, adding, after reflection, fuck) in which I made My Official F9U1C1K Statement. I then took photos of Stanley and Rose, emailed some to Planet.

I've nothing to add to F9U1C1K other than note that Osama bin Laden didn't cause the converging clusterfucks but he sped up up the collapse, the inevitable serbianization of the United States, perhaps by a decade. Corporate saw 911 as as the greatest opportunity in a generation to crush balls, crushing it's own balls in it's greedy frenzy to crush my balls. just as bin Laden, or anyone like you, me, at our own paces, reflecting now, could have predicted Corporate would.

I'm warned against a teleological bent, but what's changed isn't Corporate's future but how they are speeding up the wringing of the last fucking drop of my profitablilty now that resources are short and deadlines are overdue before set. I'm asking: do you think Corporate wouldn't kill you for a cigarette? I've overseen the execution at 240 men, damn the DNA, and I'm running for President. I've killed thousands of women and children, ordered the execution of US citizens, and I'm running for reelection.

Maybe waterboarding wasn't scheduled to go mainstream until 2015 in Corporate's 2000 long-term plan and 911 gave Corporate the opportunity to rush the install, but fuck any moaning about fucking lost innocence: it never existed, and what was marketed to you as your innocence was never yours to lose.

• World of the warlord.
• Progressively losing.
• Lost dreams of American renewal.
• Boofuckinghoo. Fuckers criticize fucker.
• One-sided war.
• Crocodile tears.
• Never Forget! the time Rudy Giuliani....
• The day that changed everything.
• The day that changed nothing.
• Everyday is 911.
• Erev Nineleven.
• Commemoration. 
• Grief porn.
• The world after 911.
• Or against us.
• Decade of fear.
• Politics of fear.
• Police state. Remember, America will need be Britain before it can be Serbia.
• Strange politics of 2012.
• What the Tea Party is and isn't includes this (among many) breathtakingly stupid paragraph: That the tea party sprang to life during Obama’s presidency should have been less surprising than it was. According to Alan Abramowitz of Emory University, “The tea party movement can best be understood in the context of the long-term growth of partisan-ideological polarization within the American electorate and especially the growing conservatism of the activist base in the Republican Party.” It wasn't surprising at all, it was utterly, crackerifically, predictable (as predictable as my disdain for motherfucking crackers).
• 25 motherfucking crackers on 911. 
• Call me when any Senate Democrat or motherfucking Obama says Mitch McConnell would rather your car plunge through a hole in a bridge into the Ohio River than raise taxes on investment bankers, but until then, stfu.
• Weekend wrap-up.
• Little Danny Snyder drops lawsuit, the fuck.
• Mystery gunk in Anacostia River identified.
• Frates for Cello and Piano.
• Arvo Part turned 76 yesterday.

WHAT YOU HAVE TO GET OVER

Bruce Smith

Stumps. Railroad tracks. Early sicknesses,

the blue one, especially.

Your first love rounding a corner,

that snowy minefield.

Whether you step lightly or heavily,

you have to get over to that tree line a hundred yards in the distance

before evening falls,

letting no one see you wend your way,

that wonderful, old-fashioned word, wend,

meaning “to proceed, to journey,

to travel from one place to another,”

as from bed to breakfast, breakfast to imbecile work.

You have to get over your resentments,

the sun in the morning and the moon at night,

all those shadows of yourself you left behind

on odd little tables.

Tote that barge! Lift that bale! You have to

cross that river, jump that hedge, surmount that slogan,

crawl over this ego or that eros,

then hoist yourself up onto that yonder mountain.

Another old-fashioned word, yonder, meaning

“that indicated place, somewhere generally seen

or just beyond sight.” If you would recover,

you have to get over the shattered autos in the backwoods lot

to that bridge in the darkness

where the sentinels stand

guarding the border with their half-slung rifles,

warned of the likes of you.