Gorging and Mute

The first thing I try to do when starting a post - I just did it now - is change the schedule date from today 2019 to today 2029 so I don't accidentally brainfart and post before ready like I did last night with this post uncompleted. My apologies. It's gone, last night's post, though you can see what was here there still.

I finally downloaded the new Pere Ubu and the new Bonnie Prince Billy and the new Tindersticks and fine, they're fine, it's me, not them. There's new Guided by Voices too, and I'm.....

• A culture driven by fear (h/t Riley Dog)
• The medium is the mistake
• Bolivia, this blog, my complicity
• Where did they dump Rudy's body?
• Do babies cry in different languages?
• Wait, what?
• So, I put Marcel aside, picked up Milkman again, working for now but three, two, one....
• Ed on Boyer's Undying, linked not to link back to me but because what Ed says
• Brokered (and will be Clinton)
• I will not buy black gesso or rice paper or a better glue for orange tablet and yet unbought giant lighthouse until I do but yes it's another self-portrait
• It's Meredith Monk's birthday, no piece, it's me, not her, this is new
• It's Don DeLillo's birthday, nothing here, it's me, not him, this is old
• Woke up with the Lux below in my head
• Last night's too many cats

AND STILL IT COMES

Thomas Lux

like a downhill brakes-burned freight train

full of pig iron ingots, full of lead

life-size statues of Richard Nixon,

like an avalanche of smoke and black fog

lashed by bent pins, the broken-off tips

of switchblade knives, the dust of dried offal,

remorseless, it comes, faster when you turn your back,

faster when you turn to face it,

like a fine rain, then colder showers,

then downpour to razor sleet, then egg-size hail,

fist-size, then jagged

laser, shrapnel hail

thudding and tearing like footsteps

of drunk gods or fathers; it comes

polite, loutish, assured, suave,

breathing through its mouth

(which is a hole eaten by a cave),

it comes like an elephant annoyed,

like a black mamba terrified, it slides

down the valley, grease on grease,

like fire eating birds’ nests,

like fire melting the fuzz

off a baby’s skull, still it comes: mute

and gorging, never

to cease, insatiable, gorging

and mute.