- So, guess what I listened to last night. Friends below have new content, but post mostly for more Negativland. RIP Don Joyce.
- Loss, and rededication.
- Triumph of the Trump. It's an intriguingly fucked-up knot: Trump's popularity to the Angry White Right is based solely on Trump's candidacy pissing you off and if you demonstrate your contempt for the Angry White Right you please the Angry White Right which strengthens Trump's candidacy and thus makes Inevitability more inevitable.
- A friend insists Trump's candidacy is in the service of Cruz, staking out vast maps of crazy whose vacuum, post-Trump, Cruz can fill while looking less crazy than Cruz is.
- #Consumerism #Depression #Change.
- Jim's bug-splat count, with mileage.
- What Lincoln left. New novel by Tom LeClair, a critic of postmodern fiction whose scholarship has influenced my reading of especially Stanley Elkin and Pynchon amongst others. Is it rational I should fear reading his fiction? Cause I do. (And Lincoln - snore.)
- Ten more Negativland songs below the fold below the song below the poem (including, finally, the U2 song).
Back in those days, when he told me about his adventures
in sex clubs it wasn't the whys and wherefores
but technical details, like going rafting
down the Colorado River; and when he wrote
about a gay male friend whose first sexual experience
was with his stepfather, the friend told him
it wasn't weird, but the best possible thing
that could have happened . . . I saw then that God,
who I never believed in, was dwelling in my heart
as a negative: that the negative had been developed
into a picture of a man who stares up at the sky
on a day so clear he sees through the mountain's shadows
to the divinely human-seeming form that climbs it—
a neighbor in running shoes and sunglasses
jogging up the slope with his dog, tongue panting
and slavering, an acute look of happiness in its eyes
that could turn at any moment into exhaustion or pain
as in a maze of cubicles called Asshole Alley, little pyramids
of canvas called Lust of the Pharaohs, different pricing
for what you want, depending on the equipment,
the air thick with a sour, acidic, head-fogging reek
of come. . . . And my pal the poet, who believed
in infernal chemistry, in the spirit as a kind
of "spooky action at a distance," he communed
with this God, this eternally dying father of all matter
who made out of our bodies his own maze of cubicles
where he hides himself away—his sanctuary
Asshole Alley where God's own unholy loves
bubble all around him like a cauldron in his ears—
and my poet pal heard the bubbling, he stirred
the pot, he showed me the holy city, the sexual New Jerusalem
that came prepared as a bride adorned for her husband . . .
—That was how it was in those days, back when my friend
hadn't yet met the coroner who wrote down
his cause of death as "polysubstance abuse"
that brought on his heart attack while fucking . . .
And regardless if I believed, whenever
we were together God shone clearer—
those were the days when every morning God woke up
in a blur of ecstasy and went to bed every night
in divine rage. Whoever loved him,
he loved. Whoever hated him,
he hated back: for who can doubt the vitality
of hate or the volatility of love.