Sunday, August 2, 2020

Meanwhile the Raccoon Squats on the Gherkins

  • Copy/pasting the big birthdays (serendipity generous, Ashbery Bush Garcia Gass Melville in five days) with 2020 updates
  • My complicity: the world is shittier 2020 than 2019 but
  • my August 1 2020 v August 1 2019 wins
  • 2019 birthday run filler, 2020 made me happy

  • Deleted much but need to note Bill Clinton defined good nigger versus bad nigger at John Lewis' funeral then admitted (and applauded) Obama shivved Bernie, our shitlords and moth
  • erfucking Democrats: more ghoul than whore
  • more whore than cancer more cancer than ghoul
  • This week's band from my CD crates is

  • Cops are rapists
  • Disinformed to Death
  • Our shitlords: You are not human, you do not have a right to anything. Not due process of the law. Not food. Not housing. Not affordable medicine or health care. Those things are for people with enough money, and if that’s not you, you don’t deserve them. This is THE most important thing you can understand about society today. You can’t count on America’s elites to care about you at all. If it is in their best financial interest to impoverish you, kill you or any other thing, they will do so.
  • Tina is a monster: on the above
  • Call it genocide
  • Ditto
  • Liberal elites will create another Trump



Michael Collier

A few of us—Hillary Clinton, Vlad Dracula,   
Oprah Winfrey, and Trotsky—peer through   
the kitchen window at a raccoon perched   
outside on a picnic table where it picks
over chips, veggies, olives, and a chunk of pâte.   
Behind us others crowd the hallway, many more
dance in the living room. Trotsky fusses with the bloody   
screwdriver puttied to her forehead.
Hillary Clinton, whose voice is the rumble
of a bowling ball, whose hands are hairy
to the third knuckle, lifts his rubber chin to announce,   
“What a perfect mask it has!” While the Count
whistling through his plastic fangs says, “Oh,   
and a nose like a chef.” Then one by one   
the other masks join in: “Tail of a gambler,”   
“a swashbuckler’s hips,” “feet of a cat burglar.”
Trotsky scratches herself beneath her skirt
and Hillary, whose lederhosen are so tight they form a codpiece,   
wraps his legs around Trotsky’s leg and humps like a dog.   
Dracula and Oprah, the married hosts, hold hands
and then let go. Meanwhile the raccoon squats on   
the gherkins, extracts pimentos from olives, and sniffs   
abandoned cups of beer. A ghoul in the living room   
turns the music up and the house becomes a drum.
The windows buzz. “Who do you love? Who do you love?”   
the singer sings. Our feathered arms, our stockinged legs.   
The intricate paws, the filleting tongue.
We love what we are; we love what we’ve become.


  1. Welcome back. Enjoyed the Maine pics! Happy birthday, right?! Thanks for the linkage.

    1. Nope, not birthday.

      Maine. Feels like six years ago, got home a week ago

  2. clinton's remarks at john lewis' funeral made it clear that he credited the african american politicians and voters with saving the democratic party from making a big mistake - i.e. nominating sanders, which apparently was in danger of happening

    “Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, 'It might have been.'”

    ― John Greenleaf Whittier

    our friends at the poetry foundation tell us

    In the 30-year struggle to abolish slavery, John Greenleaf Whittier played an important role as a poet, as a politician, and as a moral force. Although he was among the most ardent of the antebellum reformers, he was saved from the besetting sin of that class—a narrowing and self-consuming zeal—by his equal insistence on tolerance, a quality he had come to cherish all the more through his study of the persecution of his Quaker ancestors.

  3. speaking of hillary clinton, as michael collier's poem does -

    Hillary Clinton Was Right About The Deplorables: Pandemic Edition