Reflection, not poem, on conversation I had over pints last night with my friend Ready for Inevitability, above posted because I wanted to see grid on new grid template. Ready for Inevitability, now tagged here as H, an initial-de-blog, motherfucking employer social media spies, said that Inevitability's evasive non-answers when forced to say anything and silence whenever possible is strategic genius. Why should Inevitability court targeting from GOP assclowns when GOP assclowns are targeting each other? I conceded the point. Still, I said, not one person I know who will vote against any GOP assclown no matter the Democratic candidate doesn't despise - I'm not exaggerating - despise Inevitability. Blinking, H blinked. On the bar TV above H's head a cop picked up a Ferguson protester and threw him to the ground like a wet stuffed animal, and the bar exploded in laughter, some fuck started chanting USA! USA! USA! and the rest of the bar joined in....
- A twitter friend twooted something with words Loaf and music? so Renaldo and the Loaf (which he had never heard of).
- Above anecdote (the fucks in the bar, not the Loaf tweet) re: fine metaphors abound.
- Above anecdote reminder: Me, the one that hates motherfucking cops? I'm the weird one, especially when I suggest the line of who gets beaten is inexorably creeping north.
- Someone's knocking at my door. Krasznahorkai on "the terrible meeting between boorishness and aggressiveness."
- The impossibility of connection.
- Children of the Future.
- Capitalist Realism & Neoliberal Hegemony.
- Magic is afoot.
- Readers on steroids.
- Rolls like cream, wears like iron.
- Acrostic Gospel.
Nothing will hurt you that much despite how you feel
the stress on your back shapes your insight
this splendid November rain Toussaint. I find
you by your marks, he says
But when I summon you, I talk to—I say—
my memory of your face. It’s kind of crazy
to others. They’re not very interesting he says.
When I first came to this country, and now
I know the language I say, but I had in a dream
spoken it many years previously. That is,
not the language of the dead the language
of France. I took one year of French in 1964
and then nothing but once, in 1977 I spoke French
in a dream all night: I was in the future I
moved here in 1992. Country of the more
logical than I? though the people of my quartier
know and like me, even as I a foreigner remain strange
You do everything alone a woman said to me.
There are ways to care without interfering
but the French speak of anguish frequently
they are conscious of emotional extremity
a terrible gift. It’s all a gift, he says . . .
some haven’t been opened. I’m not sure
he said that it’s nearly my sixty-seventh birthday
today though it’s the day of the dead hello
we love you they say.