I Hear a Dog Who Is Always in My Death

• The only things that distract me from the daily dogtrack suck worse than the daily dogtrack
• more every day, the suck worses, can't write about here
• Sociopaths, said a friend yesterday about Republicans, sociopaths, I said, abound
• and So got yelled at yet again for insisting that between the sociopaths who pretend not to be sociopaths and the sociopaths who delight in open sociopathy the former are sociopathier than the latter
• Zones of Exception: In Agamben’s framework, the US–Mexico border can be understood as a vast zone of exception, a place where laws and rights are applied differently than they are in any other part of the nation. Since September 11, presidents of both parties have deployed military troops there in response to ill-defined crises. President Trump’s deployment of the National Guard in April, for example, came at a time when border crossings were at historic lows, and his October deployment of active-duty troops was election-season theater designed to stoke the frenzied media coverage surrounding a single caravan of refugees. All the while the US border has remained, by almost any measure, more secure than at any point in recent decades—though we might ask, secure for whom? (emphasis mine)
• Motherfucking Democrats are sociopaths. 
• I am telling you three times, the sociopaths who pretend not to be sociopaths and pretend to protect us from sociopaths who vanguard open sociopathy are Enemy One, I said
• my friend said, the fuck?
• Tweeted link to post, BLAMMO, seven unfollows in ten minutes, I am telling you three times...
• Why They Can't Write.
• Radical Realism: Sam Pink? Anyone?
• Beloved The Aardvark.
• This is Clyde.
• Hey, it's Earthgirl's birthday, send her an email card if you know her
• When Big Blood cover The Cure

I HEAR A DOG WHO IS ALWAYS IN MY DEATH

SAMUEL ACE

How is it you bring me back to the cliffs   the bright heads of eagles   the vessels of grief in the soil?   I dig for you with a gentle bit of lighter fluid and three miniature rakes   burning only a single speck of dirt to touch a twig as tiny as a neuron   or even smaller   one magic synapse inside the terminus limbs of your breath

                 

The fighter jets fly over the house every hour   no sound but inside our hands   I hear a far chime and I am cold a north wind and the grit of night   first the murmur then the corpse   first the paddling then the banquet   first the muzzle then the hanging   the plea   first the break then the tap the tap   I hear your skin   the reach of your arms   the slick along your thighs   more floorboard than step   first the flannel then the gag   first the bells   then the exhale

I hear a dog who is always in my death   the breath of a mother who holds a gun   a pillow in the shape of a heart   first the planes then the criminal ponds   first the ghost boats then the trains   first the gates then the bargain   a child formed from my fingertip and the eye of my grandmother’s mother   a child born at 90   the rise and rush of air   a child who walks from the gas