For You Could Not, Could Never Fully Refute the Actual or Justify the Sad Heft of Your Body, Earn Your Rightful Space or Pay for the Parcels of Oxygen You Inherited

• Any questions about the mean pettiness of our overlords?
• UPDATE! Ladies and gentleman, meet the next great Greenwald smear-meme.
• How to create a dictatorship.
• Because they can.
• UPDATE! Four points.
• Andrew Sullivan nears his obamapostasy?
• UPDATE! Just to be clear, rhetorical question directly above.
• UPDATE! Atrios' obamapostasy will never be ready.
• UPDATE! Digby's obamapostasy will never be ready.
• UPDATE! Drum's obamapostasy will never be ready, though he does have a tiny epiphany.
• There is not one Democrat of national significance speaking out forcefully and confrontationally against Obama.
• UPDATE! Local v national.
• The ecstasy of capitulation.
• Snowden leaks: the real take-home?
• Patriot or traitor, the choice is yours?
• Strategizing the end of neoliberalism?

• Psychopathology of the drone.
• A nation of truthers.
• The ritual theater of progress.
• Beyond blame? Society of blame: a synopsis.
• Mr Abonilox recommends this Nagel column on The Core of Mind and Cosmos.
• What is realism?
• So yes, the bleg's rearrangement continues, as always in service to my reminding myself What the Fuck. A couple of the blogrolls have changed spots. Nobody has been deleted.
• Happy Birthday, Mumpsimus.
• Cannon Fodder, part one.
• Conversion table.

SUICIDE'S NOTE: AN ANNUAL

Mary Karr

I hope you’ve been taken up by Jesus

though so many decades have passed, so far apart we’d grown

     between love transmogrifying into hate and those sad letters

           and phone calls and your face vanishing into a noose that

I couldn’t

     today name the gods

           you at the end worshipped, if any, praise being

impossible for the devoutly miserable. And screw my church who’d

     roast in Hell poor suffering

           bastards like you, unable to bear the masks

of their own faces. With words you sought to shape

     a world alternate to the one that dared

           inscribe itself so ruthlessly across your eyes, for you

could not, could never

     fully refute the actual or justify the sad heft of your body, earn

           your rightful space or pay for the parcels of oxygen you

inherited. More than once you asked

     that I breathe into your lungs like the soprano in the opera

           I loved so my ghost might inhabit you and you ingest my belief

in your otherwise-only-probable soul. I wonder does your

     death feel like failure to everybody who ever

           loved you as if our collective cpr stopped

too soon, the defib paddles lost charge, the corpse

     punished us by never sitting up. And forgive my conviction

           that every suicide’s an asshole. There is a good reason I am not

God, for I would cruelly smite the self-smitten.

     I just wanted to say ha-ha, despite

           your best efforts you are every second

alive in a hard-gnawing way for all who breathed you deeply in,

     each set of lungs, those rosy implanted wings, pink balloons.

          We sigh you out into air and watch you rise like rain.