Sunday, January 3, 2021

By Now the Body Admits It Is Getting On, and Yet, Continues to Be Tormented By Things Being the Way They Are

I put lights in my office so overhead lights aren't used and my eyes appreciate it but I spend my life on this motherfucking screen and I've told myself three times I am being reprogrammed
A friend sent me a link to his poem just published in a real poetry journal - I've posted him reading his poems on youtube here - I sent him the links to my haikus at C4SS, he said cultivate anger and haikusAnger breaks, Ted Cruz and a dozen more Republicans play to cracker base to advance their personal political careers, laughing at you decrying the kabuki, while your team will appeal to its base by screaming, ayee! crackersGentle reminder: our shitlords' plans to third world the country have accellerated faster than planned, learning what they can get away with now they thought they couldn't until 2030 they've adopted Die! Peasant! as last strategy a decade early, not that that wasn't always the plan
I don't think unclusterfucking possible, this plague's taught me our shitlords reward their henchmens' performative incompetence confident the propaganda billows - Jeff types into his google free blogging platform - ding! hold on, it's my daughter, she texting me by iPhone - can SCREEN SCREAM tribes into one-note zealots, but I do think with concerted effort Leftists of good will and strong heart can fight the inevitable long enough when either Elon Musk or Jeff Bezos dies their bank accounts are even, denying both shitlords victorywhile still using their paid and free self-surveilling services. Amen. I need a place to scream on screen that I can't know who looked I know this feeling, the car has just first caught first tug of gravity after peaking this highest roller coaster mountain The friend I sent the poems to does not know about this blog and I won't tell him if you don't, let him find it on his own which he wont, but this motherfucking blog *is* the poem


Monopoly v DemocracyThe power of social realityBomb in the backyardFaultlinesFive resolutions for the Socialist movement in 2021
^^^^^^ Short history of Gilded Age, then and now^^^^ Human creativity and clusterfuckfulness^^^^ 2020 beginning next stage of clusterfuck, not end^^^^ Political logic of US party system^^^^ #1, break with motherfucking Democrats
Leaning Into Uncertainty: A Life of Anticipating the Worst-Case ScenarioThe Contagion of CapitalShitlordy by designHoly TruthsLearning without thinking
^^^^ Clusterfuck gets clusterfuckier, yo^^^^ Plagues and shitlord profits^^^^ Shitlords^^^^ Real fake gospel^^^^ Machine learning and you
What's at stake in the Assange caseAnimal intelligence2021 January 2Plague YearNo Future: RIP, British Left
Missing the forestConsciousness is realIdeologies of MiseryGuruphobia{ feuilleton }'s weekly links



C.D. Wright

Where the old trees reign with their forward dark   
light stares through a hole in the body’s long   
house. The bed rolls away from the body,
and the body is forced to find a chair. At some hour   
the body sequesters itself in a shuttered room
with no clock. When a clean sheet of paper floats by,   
the head inclines on its axis. It is one of those
common bodies that felt it could not exist without loving,   
but has in fact gone on and on without love.
Like a cave that has stopped growing, we don’t call it dead,   
but dormant. Now the body is on all fours, one arm   
engaged in pulling hair from a trap, an activity   
the body loathes. When the time comes, the body
feeds on marinated meats and fruits trained to be luscious.   
Once the body had ambitions—to be tall and remain   
soft. No more, but it enjoys rappelling to the water.   
Because the body’s dwelling is stone, perched over water,   
we say the body is privileged. Akin to characters   
in Lawrence books, its livelihood is obscured. It owns   
a horse named Campaign it mounts on foggy morns.   
That was the body’s first lie. It has no horse
and wouldn’t climb on one. Because the body lives
so far from others, it likes reading about checkered lives
on the metrópoli. It likes moving around at night under its dress.   
When it travels, bottles of lotion open in its bags.   
Early in March the big rains came—washing all good thoughts   
from the body’s cracks and chinks. By now the body admits   
it is getting on, and yet, continues to be tormented   
by things being the way they are. Recently the body took   
one of the old trees for a wife, but the union has broken down.   
The light has bored out of the body’s long house.   
Fog envelops its stone flanks. Still the body
enjoys rappelling to the water. And it likes the twenty four-hour stores,
walking up and down the aisles, not putting a thing in its basket.