Some Days Settle So That Nothing Crosses the Horizon

• Stolen - both the vid and the bleggalweariness app - from ZRM.
• Police and Occupy.
• The Villagers of Fuckface Hiatt's YFWP op-ed page dance on the grave of the Newtster once, twice, three times.
• Under the eye of the imperial panopticon.
• Why Afghans can't tie their shoes. Adding, no one seems to mention that American occupation of Afghanistan has as much to do with what country directly west of Afghanistan can be bombed from American air bases in Afghanistan as anything else.
• The American occupation of Okinawa.
• Jive talking.
• I finished this instead of writing today's bleg lede:

• Against JSTOR.
• Retail outlet.
• McCarthy, for those of you who do.
• Sebald, for those of you who do.
• The last (faxed) poem of Bukowski.
• Beckett, for those of you who do.
• The vault and arch of landscape.
• Hum.
• Absolutely horrifying and horrible news.
• Glass is 75 today.

CLOSING HOURS

Ann Lauterbach

This trace, if it exists, is alms for delusion.   

An arch uncurls from the floor

scented with the scent of a tapestry, housed here.   

I recall the hour but not its passage

unless dream captures and ties it to sleep:

a fat bellhop smiles, shows me to the tower   

where I can watch the departure.

But some days settle so that nothing

crosses the horizon; stare as I will, no star   

needles the air. Now I am left

on the outskirts of a forest hemmed in by wheat   

where plump trees hide the image, its symmetry   

shot up and blown across the ground like feathers.   

The unicorn, the grail, blue and red wings   

of kneeling musicians, these are embroidered   

elsewhere. Perseverance was crowned.

Hope and Pity prayed for success.

How fast is this camera? Can it record a trace?   

There was a voyage. Four mounted horses   

strain against centuries.

To each is allotted: dust kicked up, smoke, plumage.