- The End of "Capitalist Realism?"
- Going back is the new going forward?
- Austerity and crisis?
- Race to the bottom?
- The rise of private government?
- Reasons for Corbyn?
- The Limits of Resistance?
- In the long run we're all dead?
- The handmaid of nativism is amnesia?
- Battle of the Brands?
- Hollywood promotes war for CIA/NSA?
- Self-subordinated and deeply confused?
- The Rise of the Internet's Dirtbag Left?
- Who wants to be Liberal anymore?
- The Hillarium will never fuck off to the sea.
- What replaces discourse?
- Stanley w Olive's paw?
- Above by Planet.
- Far above, me, recent. Seemed pertinent. Broke promise to self.
- I will say this about the Dirtbag Left - when I have initiated contact with My Dirtbag Left Overlords via tweeter, usually to either acknowledge an allusion one made or to make one I hope s/he gets, the Dirtbag Left Overlord usually graciously replies.
- We should be together.
- The Blog Days of Summer bring out the moribund and dead.
- Paleo 101, my dear Old Dirty Bama, was that you on my statcounter?
- Summer is forgotten digibuds blogroll crawling to see who's still alive.
- The bitter fish phish.
- Not here, but in Twooterville, a friend reappears and the wars start anew.
- We should be together.
- Some remember to tread water, remember treading water, fuck themselves off to the sea again.
- The trouble with reading James Tate is he hijacks my writing (more than, at this moment, Ashbery or Ammons), so haikus still yes, not meter exactly in others but....
I wish the stone lady would come to me.
Parakeet or no parakeet
the night is a vial of lighterfluid.
And I have been good, composing the perishable song
of my childhood: one dollar, one frond
meekly but loyally exploding the oath of circles.
I have been the best wound a diamond ever knew.
But what can I do for you? Write an encyclopedia
to which the least gnat could gain entrance?
I love you and I do not love you, perambulating utensils,
street names. An old man is giving mirrors
to a young girl. The meek have inherited the flypaper.
The past is more present than this moment.
I am drinking at a spring, my skin
is red and white. A little burning sensation,
a little joy I leave forever.
Oh well, I keep singing: I sing the song
of utensils, and there is one of street names,
and one of the names of dead pets.
The next day I am giving mirrors to a young girl.
I give free shoes for life to a stone lady.
She walks on air, she walks near the earth
in a region called the cryptosphere.