Each Head Has Two Horns That Part as Neatly as a Boy About to Play the Piano Wets His Hair and Hopes It Stays Flat the Whole Recital

What's that song you keep singing, D asked at Thursday Night Pints, is that Fleetwood Mac? Yes, but it's the Best Coast cover in my head, it'll top tomorrow's post, I said. Cross-talk about the Mac Renaissance, then excitingly vicious gossip about Illtophay that I'll never ever ever type here. Then, are you betting pints she'll win? L asked re: Hillary/POTUS16. D, K, and L think HRC's at bet a million to win a penny odds. This in response to this week's certainly game-planned balloons and feelers and Carvellian ooze of Hillarian Inevitability (Trademark!). I said, I've always said Obama was sapper (back when I was betting pints at 4-1, 10-1, that Obama would be reelected) and would undermine the New Deal with full support of loyal Democrats then a Republican Daddy would be elected in 2016 to impose full punishment on the fucking peasants. Professional Republicans, K said, are distancing themselves from if not disavowing their old white right-wing base. Who cares, said L, wouldn't Hillary do a better job of destroying Social Security than a Republican Daddy? I'm trademarking Hillarian Inevitability in tomorrow's (meaning this) post, I said, though fuck all of us for having this conversation, it's April 4, 2013. But yes, I've begun to consider the possibility that the success of Motherfucking Obama as sapper might lead to Hillary as destroyer.




 
UPDATE: A practical utopian's guide to collapse. Advanced obamapologetics. Will relate a conversation I had just now with my obamapologist friend at Illtophay tomorrow, or not, on how his obamapostasy will never be ready in direct proportion to how close he approaches it. A bleggal overlord on attacks from firebaggers (firebaggers?) and obots. Profiting from mistakes. Obama's benign sexism?  After us will follow...? Stream (Lambchop lead guitarist) William Tyler's solo album. darkblack's Weekend Overnight. The Best Coast cover of Rhiannon reminded me of the above Januaries' song which reminded me of




   
which reminded me of




   
which reminded me of




   
which reminded me of




   
which reminds me of GbV, which is where it always starts:





THREE POEMS

Anne Carson

NOT THE FORSYTHIA
             he doesn't let the herd eat the forsythia but

knows they like to be amidst its blazing yellows. He stands they graze he watches. Ida watches. She puzzles him he puzzles himself. Her old plaid sportscoat his tendency to befriend catastrophe. She is innocent and filled with mood like a very tough experimental baby. Her drawing book open on her knees. Blackish iridescent hides shine green as sharks amid the herd. A lone white one (Io) glows like an idol and is Ida's favorite. She looks at her drawing looks back at Io sets her drawing book down on the grass. They smell she says. Why they're called musk oxen he says it's in a gland by the knee. What is? The musk. Some people hate it he says. You ever see a musk ox dip its head to touch its knee get out of the way it's going to charge but Ida is no longer listening. The oxen move slowly. They chew coarse gaps in the weeds shifting ever so slightly sideways with their great brows bent and the long fur sweeping their ankles. Each head has two horns that part as neatly as a boy about to play the piano wets his hair and hopes it stays flat for the whole recital. G faintly smiles. It's their looking down he loves the steady way they pay attention downward yet are watching everything else too. A musk ox can see 310 degrees around in a circle. Like cats he thinks. Like cats Ida says. What? Look easy to draw but it's so not true. Ah he says. I don't hate it she says but G is frowning now. His wings are rising up on his back and he wants to know why.

    THAT OLD CLICHÉ

of polar adventure fatigue flooding his body in waves. This wonderful longing to lie down surely he's been walking for years surely he should stop and rest a moment against one of those satiny planes of ice that allure on every side. Cucumbers Shackleton Spam why is everything draining away why this silver ebbing and flowing not quite reaching his brain. He is so tired. Pour the honey into the jar. He dozes. A sudden violent sneeze shatters him in all directions. Oh he says aloud let's not die in the jar and with an effort that seems to rip his spine apart arches his upper back. Stiffened wing muscles pull hard against their roots and move into a lift. Pieces of ice break from the primaries and fall in a shower. Again he strains backward and up against what seem like seams of steel thinking maybe I can't do this but all, all at once the coverts jolt terribly free and the motion begins. He is rising. Air grabs his knees. Out of black nothing into perfect expectancy – flying has always given him this sensation of hope – like glimpsing a lake through trees or that first steep velvet moment the opera curtains part – he is keening down the ice fault. Soul fresh. Wings wildawake. Front body alive in a rush of freezing air. He opens his mouth in a cry as red sadness pours away behind him and the ancient smell of ice floods every corner of his skull.


A SALMON ANSWERS Ida when G asks. Some conversations are not about what they're about. The word conversation means "turn together." Turn a salmon turn home turn Prometheus a hopeful god. Turn organize his life! Do not turn betrayal not kiss. Night bones. Day sleeper. Girl. Not stark naked not stark itself. What do you want to be in your next life. A salmon. Why. A rescue. How. A play. Whose. A reading. When. A Friday. No. Is that why they call it the Rec room.