Touches a Bush in Which Birds Are Singing

• While Landru was commenting I should go hike with my wife I was hiking with my wife on the AT!
• All I want to do is hike with Earthgirl.
• After the hike I voted in Maryland primary:

• Earthgirl, a public school teacher in MOCO, asks me to vote for particular BoE candidates, and of course.
• I also wanted to vote against a motherfucking rich Blair - motherfucking rich Blairs are a legacy MOCO curse - for County Executive.
• To be honest, I don't know this motherfucking rich Blair is an heir of motherfucking rich MOCO Blairs, but he is rich and he is a motherfucker and he's trying to buy the job.
• That race too close to call, and MVA fucked up ballots, there are 80K provisional ballets yet to be counted, may not know if motherfucking rich Blair lost or not for a month.
• Fuck Ben Cardin, D-Fort Meade.
• Baal bless Ocasio-Cortez, get ready for the hate from motherfucking Democrats.
• (Credit to Crowley for graciousness in defeat.)
• One upset is all you need: But what mattered the most is that Ocasio-Cortez embodies the future of the Democratic Party. An ideologically confident, multi-cultural, female, poised, powerful, and yes, socialist, future. It’s a politics of inspiration that matches uplifting words with actual policies to ameliorate the long dark night of the soul we’ve been going through for too long. And in the face of that, the old guard, which had bolted the door, just gave way.
• I am telling you three times, the motherfucking professional Democratic establishments sees Ocasio-Cortez' election victory in 2018 as far more dangerous than Donald Trump's victory in 2016.
• When motherfucking Democrats turn on former motherfucking Democrat.
• For the record, all credit to whoever killed Deter Paou and hijacked his twitter account.
• Trapped.
• A brief (fascist) history of "I don't care."
• It's still not about the sex.
• Guided by Voices playing DC Friday October Friday October 19, WHO'S NOT JOINING ME!

I AM BUT A TRAVELER IN THIS LAND & KNOW LITTLE OF ITS WAYS

Dean Young

Is everything a field of energy caused

by human projection? From the crib bars

hang the teething tools. Above the finger-drummed   

desk, a bit lip. The cyclone fence of buts

  

surrounds the soccer field of what if.

Sometimes it seems like a world where no one   

knows what he or she is doing, eight lanes   

both directions. How about a polymer

  

that contracts in response to electrical

charge? A swimming pool on the 18th floor?   

King Lear done by sock puppets? Anyone

who has traveled here knows the discrepancies

  

between idea and fact. The idea is the worm   

in the tequila and the next day is the fact.   

In between may be the sacred—real blood   

from the wooden virgin’s eyes, and the hoax—

  

landing sites in cornfields. Maybe ideas

are best sprung from actions like the children   

of Zeus. One gives us elastic and the omelette,   

another nightmares and SUVs. There’s considerable

  

wobble in the system, and the fan belt screams,   

waking the baby. Swaying in the darkened   

nursery, kissing the baby-smelling head:   

good idea! But also sadness looking at the sea.

  

The stranded whale, guided out of the cove   

by tugboats, turns and swims back in.   

The violinist will not let go her violin   

which is 200 years old and still on the train

  

thus she is dragged down the track. By what

manner is the soul joined to the body?   

Answer: an arm connecting a violin

to a violinist. According to Freud,

  

there are no accidents. Astrologists

and Presbyterians agree for different reasons.   

You fall down the stairs with a birthday cake.   

You try to fit a blunderbuss into a laptop.

  

Human consciousness: is it the projector

or the screen? They come in orange jumpsuits   

and spray the grass so everything dies

but the grass. It is too late to ask Kafka

  

what he thinks. Sometimes they give you   

a box of ash, a handshake, and the rest   

is your problem. In one version,

the beggar turns out to be a king and grants

  

the poor couple a castle and a moat and two   

silver horses said to be sired by the wind.

That was before dentistry, which might have been   

a better gift. You did not want to get sick   

in the 14th, 15th, 16th, 17th or 18th centuries.

  

So too the 19th and 20th were to be avoided

but the doctor coming to bleed you is the master   

of the short story. After the kiss from whom   

he will never know, the lieutenant, going home,

  

touches a bush in which birds are singing.