it’s we who do such things, we who set the slant, embed the tip, lift the sledge and drive the nail, drive the nail which is the axis upon which turns the brutal human world upon the world

• Learn to die with it: our shitlords and you
• Good rant on those who sympathize with our shitlords
• Legal vigilantism
• The cunning of Covid
• The owner of the Racial Slurs is a despicable shitstain 
• Forgive me, lived here my whole life
• No doubt there are thousands who didn't quit rooting for the Racial Slurs over twenty years of Snyder mismanagement and shittiness but will quit the team if the Slurs change their nickname
• helmetball the second best metaphor for motherfucking America

             

• Crackers telling Lakota in the Black Hills to go home where they came from will be tough to topple from top metaphor
• Revolution at the Gate 
• Shithole country
• A (not mine) birthday bleggalgaze
• Town I grew up in named for a slave owner 
• Avedon Carol's occasional links
• A (not mine) bleggalgaze of sorts
• Novels of tension between freedom and disaster
• So not exactly a filler post, a placeholder post with links, with not exactly a >>deleted bleggalgaze<< since I haven't deleted anything, and I need think about that
• Responsible CT
• Based on real life: a novel with a title that alludes to Sunn O))) 
• Here you would normally get Sunn O))) but you instead get Root Boy Slim born 76 years ago yesterday, preempted until today per usual

  
THE NAIL

C.K. Williams

Some dictator or other had gone into exile, and now reports were coming about his regime,

the usual crimes, torture, false imprisonment, cruelty and corruption, but then a detail:

that the way his henchmen had disposed of enemies was by hammering nails into their skulls.

Horror, then, what mind does after horror, after that first feeling that you’ll never catch your breath,

mind imagines—how not be annihilated by it?—the preliminary tap, feels it in the tendons of the hand,

feels the way you do with your nail when you’re fixing something, making something, shelves, a bed;

the first light tap to set the slant, and then the slightly harder tap, to em-bed the tip a little more ...

No, no more: this should be happening in myth, in stone, or paint, not in reality, not here;

it should be an emblem of itself, not itself, something that would mean, not really have to happen,

something to go out, expand in implication from that unmoved mass of matter in the breast;

as in the image of an anguished face, in grief for us, not us as us, us as in a myth, a moral tale,

a way to tell the truth that grief is limitless, a way to tell us we must always understand

it’s we who do such things, we who set the slant, embed the tip, lift the sledge and drive the nail,

drive the nail which is the axis upon which turns the brutal human world upon the world.