Clearing a Place for a Mailbox

• Joey born 68 years ago
• True
• Maryland's governor wants to build Lexus Lanes on Beltway and 270 because a twelve-lane highway through Beltway roller-coaster already with daily wrecks at eight lanes destroying Rock Creek Park where I walk all the time, including yesterday

• there, the creek, from the path, straight up to the Beltway (see the jersey wall?) between Cedar and Connecticut come stand in front of the bulldozers with me and get zip-cuffed in futile fuck you to fucking overlords who, when not chauffeured around the beltway themselves in their motherfucking Ford and GMC tanks, need their executive lawyers and bookkeepers in their fucking Audis to get to court and work fucking you faster deeper dead
• Prayer Pimples for Hairy Fishnuts
• Joe Biden is the Lexus Lanes of motherfucking professional Democrats
• How many fucking times must Arthur explain this
• (please send Arthur the coins in your pocket)
• Conversation with the world
• Three recent attempts to theorize neoliberalism
• It's never really about the bread
• Socialist strategy and the capitalist democratic state
• Uber Presidency
• Maggie's weekly links 
• In Praise of Bullshitting - LeClair on Vollmann, Coover, Gass, and others (h/t Hilary)
• { feuilleton }'s weekly links
• I am in a novel, this is probably jinxing it enough, one Ive never read by an author I just heard about, I'm not naming it
• Jinxing more, if I'm successful, Belladonna will be next
• Serendipitously, I had a conversation about The Who (who apparently, the two living ones minus the dead rhythm section, had concert in suburban Virginia recently) just Thursday past, as in, once upon a time Townsend was on many people's Rushmore, today's his 74th birthday, I  love this song:

IN ANOTHER ROOM I AM DRINKING EGGS FROM A BOOT

Frank Stanford

What if the moon was essence of quinine

And high heels were a time of day

When certain birds bled

The chauffeur is telling the cook

The antler would pry into ice floes

Swim with a lamp

And we’d be shivering in a ditch

Biting through a black wing

There would be boats

There would be a dream country

The great quiet humming of the soul at night

The only sound is a shovel

Clearing a place for a mailbox