The traditional aarghy Egoslavian song cocktail, posted last night in response to a conversation I had with the obamaphile friend telling me of the existential importance of this Fall's midterm election, re-posted this morning with context and content. Sterling Bundy, don't you know. But, Democrats, I said. Fleabus on drums and guitars, Stanley singing on the above.
- But, Democrats.
- Piketty Diketty Riketty.
- On civility, again. I hadn't thought about McArdle in months.
- Colton Burpo, all grown up.
- Marking territory.
- Pain and parentheses.
- Hilary Mantel interview. (h/t Hamster)
- On Damon Albarn's first solo album.
- Albert Camus dancing.
- XTC's Skylarking fixed?
- Doom and gloom from the tomb: The Clean live 1981!
- I played this a couple of months ago, h/t today to Scarlet Tracery.
In the nearby plaza, musicians would often gather.
The eternal flame was fueled by propane tank.
An old man sold chive dumplings from a rolling cart,
while another grilled skewers of paprika beef.
Male turtledoves would puff their breasts, woo-ing,
and for a few coins, we each bought an hour with
the grief puppet. It had two eyes, enough teeth,
a black tangle of something like hair or fur,
a flexible spine that ran the length of your arm.
Flick your wrist, and at the end of long rods
it raised its hands as if conducting the weather.
Tilt the other wrist, and it nodded. No effort
was ever lost on its waiting face. It never
needed a nap or was too hungry to think straight.
You could have your conversation over and over,
past dusk when old men doused their charcoal,
into rising day when they warmed their skillets.
The puppet only asked what we could answer.
Some towns had their wall, others their well;
we never gave the stupid thing a name, nor
asked the name of the woman who took our coins.
But later, we could all remember that dank felt,
and how the last of grief’s flock lifted from our chests.