Offer Your Usual Posy of Goatheads

I still haven't watched a GOP candidate debate (I'm told last night's was missing the Red Meat Glee Club in the audience, so it must really have sucked). I won't watch or listen to Emperor Obama's State of the Union, POTUS 12 edition, tonight, though the predictable keywords he'll use will have you drunk after ten minutes if you're Hi-Bobbing the speech, and the post-SOTU reaction from professional partisans to partisan fan clubs down to shitty bloggers, as we all inhabit precisely-enough the positions we all reflexively adopt, just as predictable. Witness this post.

• 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.

DEAR DROUGHT

Amy Beeder

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.