My Misery and the Laborious Knots of the Sheets I Wound Myself In

New Circuit des Yeux, I vouch for all

Life in the Immiserationocene

Dear Lean of Dibrary, I recognize you were blessed with a plague *after* you were hired to decimate the Dibrary as a service point that requires employed (with benefits) humans, my department started the plague with 12.5 (not counting Bookkeeper), we will be down to four (not counting Bookkeeper) in three weeks, I hope provost and president, needing to recognize all the third team managers who've not only met but exceeded expected attrition goals, have said Thank You, Hean Lemmasi

Yes, a complaint, but meant as a canary with vapers warning you, me Cassandra, Canary, Weathervane, Fool, I will be daftold before immiseration laps at my ankles, says jinxdumbfuck, who will be as daftold as Daughter of Helen

Elric 7 thinks the heavy metals our parents exposed to as infants kids teenagers young adults in Mon Valley steel mill town and coal mining/slate burning Fayette County passed onto to us and SeatSix and he is not wrong

Return to Regular Immiseration *my* George, the long-dead bow-tied motherfucking Chicago School of Economics professor at Hilltop who called me nephew and I called uncle when we drank pints, argued human nature will return to normal, the New Deal and Great Society are doomed aberrations due to fail as human nature is shitty and people are assholes and the longer that not normal is normal the worse the return to normal levels of human immiseration will be

The great game of Smashing Countries
The foreign policy Borg and the retreat from Afghanistan
IHMD				Follow the money
A world of heat and headwinds
The contours of celebrity philantropism
Bleggalgaze (not mine, don't worry)
Rediscovered (not mine, don't worry) poem
Sanora Babb?				Old enough to love Proust?
New Deerhoof				New Dean Wareham

DEVOTION: THE GARMENT DISTRICT

Bruce Smith

In bed as the machinery of morning begins, indistinguishable

the subterranean turbines of the A train from the jet engine

as it gins the clouds, rips and reseams the length of dungaree

on its way to Pittsburgh (with the terrible and subtle cargoes,

with ashes and a cat under the seat) from the pulleys

of the service elevators from the baffled sound across the alley

of the hand-iron press and the sewing machine motors whirring

bobbins that stitch together the hot properties of Seoul

      and the suburbs

and the idiot village of Chelm, needle the veronica

      and the Buddha robe

and the sateen for spring. I looked over at her. Her skin a warp

of Christ and a weft of meat. All night she had hauled me

and the boy and the smoky, feckless men I was across

the fens and stretches of mesquite through the tunnels

and delivered me to my misery and the laborious knots of the sheets

I wound myself in. And she was exhausted from Eros and swollen

from anger. She could stand to put on a few pounds. I could see it

in her ribs. Before I would marry my restlessness to her terror,

before the crushes and wages could be made into our equity, before

the endlessness would end in spinning jennies and sleaze

      and the noise

of a fleet of vehicles with tinted windows testing

      the evacuation routes,

I would cut, then peel, then dice, then caramelize some onions

before she wasted away to nothing.