Full in the Fat Wallow of Me

• That's the new Egoslavian flag to be displayed whenever I have been writing about things I cannot publish here. Click, yo. What I have been writing about the past few days that I cannot publish here has nothing to do with loved ones - all there is fine. Let me just say I am glad I have exhausted all possible tuition benefits, I am no longer a sort of indentured servant.
• There was no point posting links over the second slowest weekend of the Blegsylvanian calendar, have some today (for the Blog Days of Summer).
• It is not the flag of >>Deleted Bleggalgazing<< though this post does contain a >>Deleted Bleggalgaze<<
• Arthur Silber checks in, send him the coins in your pocket please.
• Demonstrating precarity.
• Manufacturing plausible consent.
• Vampire Culture.
• American cynicism.
• America's culture of hustling.
• Say goodbye to the Holocene Epoch.
• The Duggars, sex, and the police. I had never heard of the Duggars until last week.
• A dipshit from Socialist Worker looks at animal rights.
• Dan Bejar interview.
• Krasznahorkai.
• Robinson Jeffers' Pelicans.
• Theme Song, Blog Days of Summer:

FARROW

Kimberly Johnson

Full in the fat wallow of me,
                           Superfluity
            Even to the marrow—

Blood plumping along in a red swell
                            Of venules
            Blushing my most unabashed

Skinpatches: nosetip, earlobe, wristshallow.  O
                           This mother
              Is a crush of too-muchness,

A malady of my baffled self awash.
                          Accomplished
             Finally the days, will I find

My bones I lost, will my sharps and edges
                         Hedge this fleshy
              Habit I’ve made of excess?

Already my heartracing startles
                          In another’s
              Twitches, my dinner hiccups

Another’s diaphragm. Already and almost
                           I swear I feel
              The protein creep of me, cell

By splitting cell, into another’s life.
                           This mother-grief
               Sorrows not for the heart-close one

I’ll lose from me at my delivery
                          But for my own
               Soul overboiling, unbound, bound

To a stranger’s groans, undone by his hurts
                          And remorses
                To the third and fourth

Generations. What I’m birthing is my own
                          Diffusion.
                 Never again mere. Never again my own.