Monday, July 4, 2016

Some Crank in Me Tightens the Whirly-Spring

Bill wanted to be caught sabotaging the investigation into Hillary's State Dept emails, said someone who would know (I've vouchers), and of course he did. Countless ways exist for Clintons to privately contact AG Lynch and dictate findings if findings are muddy-enough, but the Clinton's don't trust it's muddy-enough so they dispatched the Big Dog to so thoroughly muddy the fucking water it won't settle to bottom until February 2017 (when there will be a new Attorney General, AG Lynch long dead on her sword).

To take full and brutal advantage of this latest incidence of the Clintons' ruthless contemptuousness for whatever anybody fucking thinks, on the day Hillary Clinton not-coincidentally gave her stalled-off as long as she could interview with the FBI, magnifying the import of Bill's meeting with AG Lynch, Donald Trump tweets an image of Hillary Clinton and dollar bills and a Star of David.

The fuck? In real life I had the conversation in the family room of a hospice. Flowers are for Steve.

  • Planet can vouch. I have consciously started driving no more than five miles an hour over the speed limit. I never drive slower than the speed limit. Try it. Watch people drive. Watch people react to your driving non-aggressively, non-angrily: YOU are the problem. It's fascinating. Fine metaphors abound.
  • The Archaeology of Street Names.
  • Maggie's weekly links.
  • { feuilleton }'s weekly links.
  • Someone reminded me of Joan Armatrading. The song there? Reminds me of what I like about Joan Armatrading, what I don't like about Joan Armatrading.
  • The fuck? I picked up a book and next thing I know Father Zossima has died. Katerina Ivananova is an idiot. Ivan is a piece of shit like me. Alyosha is a fool.


Dean Young

To always be in motion there is no choice
even for the mountain and its frigid
cousins floating on the oceans that even sluggish
seethe and moan and laugh out loud at their own
jokes. How "like the human heart" can be said of
pert near everything, pint of fizz, punching
bag because all moves: the mouse, the house,
the pelt of moon corresponding to the seas
(see above) (now get back here) of mood,
sadness heaving kelp at the sunken city's
face, gladness somersaulting from the eaves
like a kid's drawing of a snowflake. No matter
how stalled I seem, some crank in me
tightens the whirly-spring each time I see
your face so thank you for aiming it
my way, all this flashing like polished
brass, lightning, powder, step on the gas,
whoosh we're halfway through our lives,
fishmarkets flying by, Connecticut,
glut then scarcity, hurried haircuts,
smell of pencils sharpened, striving,
falling short, surviving because we ducked
or somehow got some shut-eye even though
inside the hotel wall loud leaks. I love
to watch the youthful flush drub your cheeks
in your galloping dream. Maybe even
death will be replenishment. Who knows?
Who has the time, let's go, the unknown's
display of emeralds closes in an hour,
the fireworks' formula has changed, will we
ever see that tangerine blue again, factory
boarded up then turned into bowling lanes.