My Tiny Bots of Stimulation

This past Monday or Tuesday I was so over-stimulated by my attempts to avoid clusterfuck stimulation that I tweeted a link to a Bill Kristol column declaring Obama's deal with Iran is the lowest moment in American history, easily eclipsing two hundred years of slavery and the genocide of Native Americans, when all I meant to do was post the youtube address of the above new Yo La Tengo cover of The Cure's Friday.

• Last night I was so over-stimulated by my attempts to avoid clusterfuck stimulation I resorted to cellos, Ligeti's Sonata in particular.
• Paradox Lost.
• Short secretary tells tall tales.
• Thoughts on an alternative history.
• Four maladies of global capitalism.
• Survival after hope.
• For some reason (which I can't go into here, but think chicken on the bus) I thought about the final MASH episode, and it occurred to me (and I verified) that Klinger and Miles O'Brien married the same woman.
• Re-admitting eternity (Ceravolo, for those of you who do).
• Robert Kelly, for those of you who do.
• I used to believe that I sincerely wished to opt out of over-stimulation from the clusterfuck.
• However, I am going to opt out of the over-stimulation re: Coates. 
• Kidding. Dig this.
• Nothing - nothing - can make me read David Brooks letter to Coates.
• Click Ligeti and Feldman tags for much more, yo.
• Last night I was so over-stimulated by my attempts to avoid clusterfuck stimulation that after I resorted to cellos, Ligeti's Sonata in particular, still over-stimulated (you see - and this is duh, of course, it's the duh that over-stimulates me - a Muslim shooting marines is terrorism, a white male shooting black people is a lone crazed gunman), I turned to Feldman (which almost worked).

URGENT CARE

Dana Levin

Having to make eye contact

               with the economy—

A ball cap that says

               In Dog Years I’m Dead—“The moon

will turn blood red and then

               disappear for awhile,” the TV enthused. Hunched

over an anatomy textbook, a student

               traces a heart

               over another heart—lunar eclipse.

In the bathroom, crayoned

               graffiti:

                              fuck the ♥

•

He collected CAPTCHA, one seat over,

               Mr. feverish Mange Denied:

like puzzling sabbath or

               street pupas; we shared

some recent typos: I’m

               mediated (his), my tiny bots

of stimulation, he

               loved the smudged

and swoony words that proved him

               human—

not a machine trying to infiltrate

               the servers

of the New York Times, from which he launched

               (gad shakes or hefty lama)

obits and exposés, some recipes, a digital pic of someone else’s

               black disaster, he

lobbed links at both of his fathers (step and bio)

               a few former lovers, a high school coach, a college chum,

                          some people

“from where I used to work,” so much info

               (we both agreed), “The umbra,”

the TV explained, shadow

               the earth was about to make—

•

      ...and if during the parenthesis they felt a strange uneasiness...

      ...firing rifles and clanging copper pots to rescue the threatened...

      ...so benighted and hopelessly lost...

      ...their eyes to the errors...

MOON LORE, Farmer’s Almanac. Waiting room,

               hour two.

•

Urgent Care. That was pretty

               multivalent. As in:

               We really need you to take care of this.

               We really need you

               to care for this.

               To care about this. We really need you

to peer through the clinic’s

               storefront window, on alert

               for the ballyhooed moon—

And there it was. Reddening

in its black sock, deep

               in the middle of the hour, of someone’s

               nutso-tinsel talk on splendor—

My fevered friend. Describing

the knocked-out flesh. Each of our heads

               fitting like a flash drive

               into the port of a healer’s hands.