- Had a delightful conversation yesterday with my Warrenite-Apostating Friend, here's the abridged:
- Yup achieved, we hate the same people plus or minus within acceptable mileage variances
- Earthgirl and me, two fossil-fuel burning green-pretending hypocrites, fly to Michigan tomorrow morning, I'm curious what who where and if the political signage (Michigan primary this coming Tuesday)
- There will be no morning updates from the breakfast lounge of the Comfort Inn in Chelsea Michigan because I am a true Democrat in a Democracy of 3, I'm out-voted 2-1 most referendums, happily mostly, honoring always
- Warrenite-Apostating Friend calls Warren the Inflatable Noodle Woman
- I already miss the morning updates this coming Saturday and Sunday from the breakfast lounge of the Comfort Inn in Chelsea Michigan that won't
- Mark E Smith, born 63 years ago today (dozens more songs here)
- Capitalist stagnation
- Super Tuesday seen from London, again, no mention that Biden's brain is dementia pudding
- Just in: Michigan governor endorses senility-addled stool whose drug-addled son was gifted a bogus job with a Ukrainian oil company hoping for access to the senility-addled stool when senility-addled stool was *not* a senility-addled stool but an ably-addled powerful motherfucking professional Democrat Vice-Presidential stool
- Aspiring Iowan teenage terrorists!
- Women in labor
The bioluminescent undersides of squid render them invisible to predators
below. That the radiance of the boy’s anger might protect him.
Walking the dog and stepping on a patch of repaired road, I remember the
soft spot in his head.
You’re deaf as a beagle. No, you are.
Can I feel the tide’s drag on the turning earth increase each day’s duration?
A hair in my nostril has gone white.
In absolute night, from my bed, I hear him aiming for the toilet’s center.
The sound deepens, voice finding its register.
Scientists call it an entangled system.
We survive Christmas, his face pressed to the smooshed bosom of his
grandmother in a house so immaculate, the spider in the seam of the
ceiling stands out obscenely.
Like a star at the outskirts of the galaxy, and slung around by the gravity of
dark matter. For now, he goes where we go, but he does not belong to us.
I begin to begin my sentences leaning toward him, taking a deep breath.
He relinquishes the conversation with a contraction of his pupils.
What is for one of us the throb of the immediate is, for the other, the
When napalm hits my brain, he takes on the tranquillity of a blinking
She finds a photograph of him at seven. The sheer expressed of his face. As
among Michelangelo’s early drawings, there is a copy of Masacchio’s lost
Sagra, the consecration.
We search our memories of him for a certain unity of characteristics that
would hold through the permutations he now submits to us.
When it clings to the wire-and-rug surrogate, lab technicians shock it
again. Instead of releasing, it clings tighter.
Throwing himself into the back seat after wrestling practice, mat burns on
his cheek and forehead.
His muteness an onomatopoeia of the rising moon.