It's Useless Pretending They Aren't Finished

Not a filler post but a fill-in post to replace what you probably didn't see here Friday night (which I love you but wasn't for you) and disappeared Saturday morning

So, the beginnings of the Futile Weekend Blooging Pest, one of my blegging obsessive compulsions to not have the rare human click on a BLCKDGRD feed on someone's blagrill to discover a That Post Does Not Exist landing point

thus a live post for a live feed, this will probably *be* the futile weekend post, links now, links added, Fleabus last night

 

• Trump's done, though Saturday's Cracker March on Washington might get slappy
• Court Villager calls cracker christers the cracker christers they are
• My wife's old family friend isn't a christer but, they're on the phone as I type this, cresus jacker is he a cracker
  
• Trump's movement out of power: just saying
• Assessing the election
• The election is over, the capitalist class won
  
• Our priorities 
  
• This exists
• Four years from now 
  
• Humans versus neanderthals
• The power of Adrienne Rich  
• Three hours of Neil Young's music for his 75th birthday

OBSESSIVE

Marvin Bell

It could be a clip, it could be a comb;

it could be your mother, coming home.   

It could be a rooster; perhaps it’s a comb;   

it could be your father, coming home.   

It could be a paper; it could be a pin.   

It could be your childhood, sinking in.

The toys give off the nervousness of age.   

It’s useless pretending they aren’t finished:   

faces faded, unable to stand,

buttons lost down the drain during baths.   

Those were the days we loved down there,   

the soap disappearing as the water spoke,

saying, it could be a wheel, maybe a pipe;   

it could be your father, taking his nap.

Legs propped straight, the head tilted back;   

the end was near when he could keep track.

It could be the first one; it could be the second;   

the father of a friend just sickened and sickened.