From This Fat Dungeon I Could Rise to Skin and Human Title, Putting Pig Within

So, Ozzie Guillen and Fidel Castro. I've decided against the chronicling via blooger gadget the day-by-day shitstorms because hearing each day's new cover of the same song doesn't make that anthem suck any less or any more. I won't get fooled again, which is worse since I will unreservedly and unexaminedly still love my sucky anthems as much as I loathe others over and over again day after day. Since I need write this publicly to purge it from my head: I need insult me to get past insulting you for sins we share, sin a lead word. I'm plumbed. That sentence was extinct as I wrote it, fresh as a b/w photo post-colorization.

• Can't suck more.
• Motherfucking Obama.
• Motherfucking Obama.
• Code is law.
• How to stop worrying and love the drone.
• Decline of the West.
• Terrorism as laughing matter.
• The torture-lovers who rule us.
• It's a rich man's world.
• Neurocapitalism: There is good reason to assert the existence, or at least the emergence, of a new type of capitalism: neurocapitalism. After all, the capitalist economy, as the foundation of modern liberal societies, has shown itself to be not only exceptionally adaptable and crisis-resistant, but also, in every phase of its dominance, capable of producing the scientific and technological wherewithal to analyse and mitigate the self-generated "malfunctioning" to which its constituent subjects are prone. In doing so – and this too is one of capitalism's algorithms – it involves them in the inexorably effective cycle of supply and demand.
• Morning cup of propaganda.
• The mind outside my head.
• When you are most invisible.
• Danielewski writes a letter.
• Why are American and English novels gutless?
• On rereading. Strangely in one sense but predictable in another, I'm not enjoying rereading now at 52 like I did at 42 or 32. Changes in other tablets, changes in all tablets soon, with luck.
• Poetry and autobiography.
• Breakfast with Thom Gunn.
• Which of course made me think of Thom Gunn, and yes, the below poem, perhaps his most known, I've posted before, bet I post it again.
• Poets at Lunch.
• Holland.
• RIP Cynthia Dall.
• RIP Cynthia Dall.
• RIP Cynthia Dall.
• Christmas.

MOLY

Thom Gunn

Nightmare of beasthood, snorting, how to wake.
I woke. What beasthood skin she made me take?

Leathery toad that ruts for days on end,
Or cringing dribbling dog, man’s servile friend,

Or cat that prettily pounces on its meat,
Tortures it hours, then does not care to eat:

Parrot, moth, shark, wolf, crocodile, ass, flea.
What germs, what jostling mobs there were in me.

These seem like bristles, and the hide is tough.
No claw or web here: each foot ends in hoof.

Into what bulk has method disappeared?
Like ham, streaked. I am gross—grey, gross, flap-eared.

The pale-lashed eyes my only human feature.
My teeth tear, tear. I am the snouted creature

That bites through anything, root, wire, or can.
If I was not afraid I’d eat a man.

Oh a man’s flesh already is in mine.
Hand and foot poised for risk. Buried in swine.

I root and root, you think that it is greed,
It is, but I seek out a plant I need.

Direct me gods, whose changes are all holy,
To where it flickers deep in grass, the moly:

Cool flesh of magic in each leaf and shoot,
From milky flower to the black forked root.

From this fat dungeon I could rise to skin
And human title, putting pig within.

I push my big grey wet snout through the green,
Dreaming the flower I have never seen.