I Don't Know How to Make the Faucet Hold Back Its Drip

• I am in an art show, Earthgirl's (that's me above discing at Seneca, the photo taken and painting painted without my knowledge until yesterday), hanging in the Main Lobby of the NBC studios on Nebraska Avenue in DC. All guests on Meet the Press must enter that studio from the lobby: think of all the powerful and wannabe-powerful assholes who will pass through that lobby and pay no attention to Earthgirl's paintings, though - thought experiment - think: Ted Cruz walks through, falls in love with them, wants to buy them all, then what? All reporters and anchors of the local NBC affiliate news programming must pass through the lobby too. Perhaps one will stop and linger for seconds..... We hung the show yesterday afternoon, only saw one other human. The guard who let us in mentioned that Colin Powell had been on Meet the Press earlier that morning (no doubt discussing this week's ranking of who should be killed first and the pragmatic killing of those deemed most desired dead) - I did not have the opportunity to chicken out of telling the motherfucker to fuck off.
• Sovereign imagination: the art of Leonard Peltier.
• Some dude in New York Times cites kayfabe. He didn't steal it from me though I yodel kayfabe all the time. Here's Trump's allure: he's breaking kayfabe. Here's what the Villager press doesn't get about Trump's (and professional wrestling's) fans: they know shit is fake. This is the reason Inevitability sucks - she's walking Kayfabe, only she doesn't know it. Only fucking Villagers believe shit is real.
• UPDATE! The above bullet was a slam at Inevitability fans too. My apologies, I thought that the free bingo square.
• Jacob - he who was IOZ - on Kim Davis. As when he was IOZ, he writes what I was working on pretty much with the same take so I now needn't bother. I will add this: if you disagree vehemently with Davis (and her imaginary friend Jesus), fine, stop with the sexist shit about her appearance.
• Where is he going to find the time to not read all these books?
• Having a email conversation with Tom. He asks hard questions whose answers I think I know how I don't but still, as ever, am futilely formulating into English how I don't know them, but he stopped the down cycle of Dark - in which I daydream of giving up - so if a manic up is the necessary result, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!
• Here, I will not quote Tom but I will quote me: There is a reason every post - but for those on my daughter's and wife's birthdays  - is tagged My Complicity. I don't know how to reconcile an afternoon on the Appalachian Trail and the joy that gives me with thinking about the dead child by the ocean while I'm hiking. It's the central tension of what I write, here and in tablet. Whether to shout or shut up - hence two other tags on every post - but for those on my daughter's and wife's birthday - Brazen Blogwhoring and My Inability to Shut the Fuck Up.
• Earthgirl says she'll see Destroyer with me in October at 930, have more new songs:

HOW TO DANCE WHEN YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO DANCE

Nick Lantz

You and I fit together
like two millstones, and oh the music

we make of grist, going round
and round the same

arguments (taxes, laundry,
the leaky

faucet, the unremarkable
disasters of marriage).

My feet are two ugly badgers
that hide their faces

in the dirt when they see
clouds tip-toeing

above the lake.
The homely trees in winter
crack and fall

into one another: that is how I must
look to you as I gather

dirty plates to the sink.
You say, Talk to me about

the weather. I say that once
a tornado carried

a birdcage with a live canary inside
a quarter mile, the cage
flying, the bird flying

inside of it. I don’t know how
to make the faucet

hold back its drip. I try
to open a bottle of wine

and half the cork breaks off
inside the neck. But you, Love,
you ignore

the flecks of cork floating
in your glass, the way

I teeter and reach out a hand
for something that isn’t there.

Love, I will mate the limp socks. I will fold

the shirts so their sleeves
wrap around their flat,

empty chests. I will drip words
into your ear as you fall asleep.

I will carry boxes up and down
the basement steps all day.

I will pour another glass of wine,
and we will dance the slick sidewalk two-step,

the lassoed-calf flop,
the chain gang shuffle, the all-thumbs

jitterbug,
the fish-out-of-water jive.