Whine as Though a Pine Tree Is Bowing a Broken Violin

Dear Dos Equis, please have The Most Interesting Man in the world say, I was Zizek until it bored me, then send me money please. Love, BLCKDGRD.

• Yup, that's all I got other than to say I've some good news - I hope, so far so good - re: replacing google reader, The Old Reader.
• Axial class struggle.
• The Villagers' jester tells you you're doing motherfucking Obama a favor when you call Obama a motherfucker: But, in reality, the progressives’ street protest did Obama a favor. He needs to have the likes of Bernie Sanders against him. It strengthens his hand and helps him negotiate a better deal with Republican leaders, who can now see that liberal backbenchers and interest groups can sometimes be as intransigent as conservatives. Well, fuck me. And it doesn't mean Obama isn't a despicable motherfucker.
• On the Kosian Civil War.
• Maggie, milk, and the fatted lamb.
• Thatcher's death and righteous sexism.
• Misogyny and the neoliberal world order.
• Ethnocentric criticism.
• Slag. I've mentioned my father grew up in a coal company town in Fayette County Pennsylvania, the photos in Tom's post remind me of drives my Uncle Steve took us on when we were kids.
• One of us.
• Rebranding my future hell. Trafficjamistan.
• This article implies MOCO might not get the full brood. Fuck.
• Being boring.
• Beckett, for those of you who do.
• Babbitt, for those of you who do.
• Suitcase song.
• The third hour of the night.
• Ashbery, for those of you who do.
• Three Ashbery poems.
• WFMU DJs playing the hell out of the new Purling Hiss, for good reason:

   
CICADAS AT THE END OF SUMMER

Martin Walls

Whine as through a pine tree is bowing a broken violin,
As though a bandsaw cleaves a thousand thin sheets of
          titanium;
They chime like freight wheels on a Norfolk Southern
          slowing into town.

But all you ever see is silence.
Husks, glued to the underside of maple leaves.
With their nineteen fifties Bakelite lines they'd do
          just as well hanging from the ceiling of a space
          museum -

What cicadas leave behind is a kind of crystallized memory;
The stubborn detail of, the shape around a life turned

The color of forgotten things: a cold broth of tea & mile
          in the bottom of a mug.
Or skin on an old tin of varnish you have to life with
          linesman's pliers.
A fly paper that hung thirty years in Bird Cooper's pantry
          in Brighton.