The Dog, a Survivor, Was Dead

The television in the breakfast lounge of the Comfort Inn in Chelsea Michigan is tuned to a local Detroit morning's news show, the station showing clips from Trump's rally in Dallas last night as well as mentioning Mulvaney's comments in yesterday's presser. It is 6:10am as I type this, I am the only person in the breakfast lounge. The station quickly segues to coverage of tonight's crucial Michigan 4A football game between Farmington v North Farmington, interviewing both head coaches in the hour I sit here. Below, Lake Erie from Seat 12A Southwest flight 1322 yesterday.

• Beware the rise of Far-Right environmentalism
• Capital is dead?
• Nixon versus Trump
• Who's brainwashed here?  
• Local station loops back to Trump rally, three of the four other white people in the lounge (7:15 now) shake their heads but make no noise
• Reminder: Halliburton
• Motherfucking Democrats
• I'm sure professional Democrats will attack Joe Biden as a sexist for his criticism of Elizabeth Warren with the same naked vigor they attacked Sanders for his criticism of Clinton
• Nutrition and austerity 
• The most ancient trees on Earth
• The trees are only a week or two ahead of Maryland's but the bushes and meadows here, kaboom, colors here tomorrow
• There is a Mingus String Quartet that has been played once and never recorded
• On the new Richard Dawson album

THE INCREASING FREQUENCY OF BLACK SWANS

Claudine Rankin

I was listening for the dog

when the locks were pried open.

The man was dead. The dog, a survivor,

was dead. It happens

more often this way.

A disease left

untreated; the body,

in confusion, gives in.

The bomb breathes its fire down

the hallway, the son comes back

in pieces; the body,

in confusion, gives in.

The grief is a planet. A dust ring.

A small moon that’s been hidden

under my pillow, that’s been changing

the way my body moves this whole time.