- For more bleggalgazing, see poem below.
- Consider this post's title and my favorite nighttime blogheader, speaking of predictability, along about 730 tonight.
- Earth is always talking along fault lines.
- Rules of American justice.
- His generations greatest fraud - and I say this admiringly - on coffee.
- Good news!
- I'm not speechless but I'll post the link and keep quiet.
- Fuckface resurfaces.
- Pastor Sanctimonious, without self-awareness or irony, calls Gingrich a con-man.
- I don't give a flying fuck whether some ice-soccer player went to the White House or not. I used to give a flying fuck how motherfucking stupid it is for sports teams to go to the White House to meet whoever the motherfucking president is, but I don't give a flying fuck about that anymore either, though I do wonder if those applauding this particular ice-soccer player would be condemning him if he was a pwoggle refusing to meet a GOP POTUS and visa versa.
- The sea is madness.
- The world is silence in your head.
- Life on a beam.
- Sonar in my soul.
Offer your usual posy of goatheads. Proffer
sharp garlands of thistle & Inca's thin down;
of squash bugs strung on blighted stems; send
back necklaced every reeking pearl I crushed,
each egg cluster that I scraped away with knife
or twig or thumbnail. Wake me sweat-laced
from a dream of hidden stables: the gentle foals
atremble, stem-legged, long-neglected. Dear
drought our summer's corn was overrun again
with weed & cheat; the bitter zinnias fell to bits.
Dear yearlings our harvest is lattice & husk.