Tunnel of Sun Drop and Pencil in the Margins of a Flare

• Click, yo.
• Starting a run of a week of Egoslavian Holy Days tomorrow.
• I rediscovered pencils before I discovered this year's model of my favorite bleedworthy pens no longer bleedworthy, I've the order form from when I ordered the packs of pens and boxes of pencils, bless Serendipity whether it loving or cruel.
• The World Is in Pencil.
• Let's have ice cream at the junkyard.
• Today's valuable duh: the role of politicians in an oligarchy.
• He got it backwards, I said to a Bernieperson, the dope pledged allegiance to the DNC fully aware what the DNC is and does at start of campaign, bitching now about what the DNC is and does makes him look the bitter uncle at Thanksgiving he was trying to avoid being when he stupidly pledged allegiance to the motherfucking DNC in the first place. Fuck you, said Bernieperson.

• Vince Foster? said my exasperated pro-Hillary Colleague, Trump's bringing up Vince Foster and Whitewater? You didn't think, I said, the Clinton Syndicate knew it was going to make us all live the motherfucking 1990s all over again? The Democratic Party could have spent the last eight years grooming a new generation of Clinton operative that was not Clinton herself, like that was even debated. Vince Foster? HC said. Trump's going to win, I said. Fuck you, HC said.
• For the record, I call bullshit on the Bernie / Hillary are at war meme. Bullshit.
• A theory of pundit wars: on twitter and blogging and inevitable assholity.
• The birthplace of the artist. HEY! Look, dammit, you'll be glad.
• Serendipitous, ▲ , lines of late interest me.
• Frances' article on FLOTUS in ABQ.
• The Special One and Ibra at Old Trafford? I have to not hate Man Utd?
• On stones and poetry.
• Written with a Pencil in Lorine Niedecker's Front Yard.

BLUES FOR ALICE

Clark Coolidge

When you get in on a try you never learn it back

umpteen times the tenth part of a featured world

in black and in back it’s roses and fostered nail

bite rhyme sling slang, a song that teaches without

travail of the tale, the one you longing live

and singing burn

It’s insane to remain a trope, of a rinsing out

or a ringing whatever, it’s those bells that . . .

and other riskier small day and fain would be

of the soap a sky dares

                                               but we remand,

that we a clasp of the silence you and I, all of

tiny sphering rates back, I say to told wall, back

and back and leave my edge, and add an L

Night is so enclosed we’ll never turn its page

its eye, can be mine will be yours, to see all the people

the underneath livid reaching part and past of the lying buildings

the overreacher stops and starts, at in his head, in

in her rhythm

that knowledge is past all of us, so we flare and tap

and top it right up, constant engage and flap in on

keeping pace, our whelming rift, and soil and gleam

and give back the voice, like those eary dead

Step down off our whelm lessons and shortly fired

enter the bristle strum of Corrosion Kingdom

where the last comes by first ever ring, every

race through that tunnel of sun drop and pencil

in the margins of a flare, of higher wish than dare,

the stroked calmings of a line will spin and chime

in blue quicks of a dream blues, the chores

of those whispering gone crenulations

To meet a care is to dial redeem

and we limp in the time sound balms

so out of kilter is my name in the sun, and I win

in the moon and you sing in that other spelling of win

the way a blue is never singular