Head Hissing Static

• I caught fifteen seconds of SOTU in the car. The guy in the car next to me at the stoplight honked and gave me the finger. He thought I was screaming at him while I waved middle fingers in the air. I mouthed, it's not you, it's motherfucking Obama. He thumbed-up, sped off at green, Ron Paul and pro-gun bumperstickers on his car's ass.
• YES!! It was only fifteen seconds but it was just like this.
• SOTU rebuttal from McPherson Square. (h/t)
• Do the CREEP.
• So good it hurts.
• The most conspicuously absent word in SOTU.
• The dodge of war.
• Of course Schneiderman sold out.
• I didn't hear Mitch Daniels' SOTU rebuttal, though I'm sure I wouldn't have cursed and waived middle fingers in the air, his saying exactly what anyone knew he'd say not worthy of cursing or waiving middle fingers. My disconnect is only half done. It's fun! I allow myself a gif!
• The Republican nightmare.
• Why you are in debt.
• You can't read about dogs without goddamn patriarchy getting in your face.
• One pause poetry.
• Eno talks about Music for Airports.
• A friend recommends Six Organs of Admittance. This link serves as a mnemonic device for me.
• Woke up with this in my head:

LIMBO: ALTERED STATES

Mary Karr

No sooner does the plane angle up

than I cork off to dream a bomb blast:

A fireball roiling through the cabin in slo-mo,   

seat blown loose from its bolts,

I hang weightless a nanosecond

         in blue space

then jerk awake to ordered rows.

And there’s the silver liquor cart jangling   

its thousand bells, the perfect doses   

of juniper gin and oak-flavored scotch

         held by a rose-nailed hand.

I don’t miss drinking, don’t miss

driving into shit with more molecular density   

than myself, nor the Mission Impossible

reruns I sat before, nor the dead

space inside only alcohol could fill and then   

         not even. But I miss

the aftermath, the pure simplicity:

mouth parched, head hissing static.

How little I asked of myself then—to suck   

the next breath, suffer the next heave, live   

till cocktail hour when I could mix

         the next sickness.

I locked the bathroom door, sat   

on the closed commode, shirtless,

in filmy underpants telling myself that death   

could fit my grasp and be staved off   

while in the smeary shaving glass,   

I practiced the stillness of a soul

         awaiting birth.

For the real that swarmed beyond the door

I was pure scorn, dead center of my stone and starless   

universe, orbited by no one. Novitiate obliterate, Saint   

Absence, Duchess of Naught . . .

A stinging ether folded me in mist.

Sometimes landing the head's pressure’s enormous.   

When my plane tilts down, houses grow large, streets

lose their clear geometry. The leafy earth soon fills my portal,   

and in the gray graveyard of cars, a stick figure

becomes my son in royal blue cap flapping his arms   

as if to rise. Thank god for our place

in this forest of forms, for the gravitas

that draws me back to him, and for how lightly

         lightly I touch down.