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
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