God's Vigorish

No, I do give a fuck it just need honor the what the fuck, I said at a Wednesday night TNP, changed at my request because Thursday night is Planet's last in town until - fuck - middle of May. I was asked by K about blogging, but I could have been talking about POTUS12 and the general clusterfuck or Hilltop gossip or a loved team that has a stupid red third kit or any of the other things I daily knead the yodel over here. For instance, I continued, I read how Little Danny Fucktard is angry at his fellow billionaire fucktards' sudden fetish with the rules of inside fucktard fucktardery - like there are rules in fucktardery, right? - and I read how Leon Panetta flew into Afghanistan today to rescue an American psychopath and mass-murderer from sovereign Afghan jurisprudence, because you know what just might fuck-up Obamalame's recoronation? An American soldier receiving righteous Afghan retribution on TV. Christ, you're in a bad mood, said L. No, I said, look at what should have just posted automatically if blooger worked when you get home, do it before eight tomorrow morning, I'm in as good and as pure-as-I'm-capable what-the-fuck mood at least half the time, even if it's the dark and unread half.

• The capitalist rush back to the feudal past.
• Capitalism.
• What is coercion?
• Drones.
• The most obvious reason Obamabhorent lets the Yemeni rot in jail is because if he intervenes the professional Right and their cracker base will scream TERRORIST APPEASER! Which makes the professional Left and their pwoggle base worse.
• On the above. On the above.
• Congratulations! You've been targeted for assassination.
• Ladies and gentlemen, the greatest academic fraud of his generation! (I say this admiringly.)
• My future hell.
• Fuck-me-jig.
• Waiting for Wotan, continued.
• Blue's playlist. I confess, I was born w/o the blues gene.

PROSPERO WITHOUT HIS MAGIC

Jack Gilbert

He keeps the valley like this with his heart.
By paying attention, being capable, remembering.
Otherwise, there would be flies as big as dogs
in the vineyard, cows made entirely of maggots,
cruelty with machinery and canvas, sniggering
among the olive trees and sea grossly vast.
He struggles to hold it right, the eight feet
of heaven by the well with geraniums and basil.
He will rejoice even if the shepherd girl
does not pass anymore at evening. And whether
or not she ate her lamb at Easter. He knows
that loneliness is our craft, that death is
God's vigorish. He does not keep it fine
by innocence of leaving things out.