Today in my complicity I am typing on my new chromebook, my buyer's regret easing already, and I will never miss windows, and trading one shitlord self-surveillance operating system for another shitlord self-surveillance operating system reminds me of when I took off a wristwatch I'd been wearing for years and replaced it with a shitlord surveillance device, lost weight, felt guilty for a month, I got more complicit with that act, yes, but betrayed an inanimate object I thought I loved, and I'm sure there's a built-in app on another of my self-surveillance devices that could do what the self-surveillance device on my wrist does but the once-beloved watch is busted, *isn't* it Olive, I can't put the watch I took off back on, but I'm just switching ogres here, and I never loved my dying laptop like I ever loved my dead watch I abandoned after promises and Olive killed before I wouldn't've made good
The new first collection of John Ashbery's posthumous unfinished and/or abandoned poems arrived yesterday, five long poems (compared especially to the poems in his late books), I've read two, they work of course like most Ashbery poems until I attempt to assign more anything to his uncanny intimations rushing over me than simply enjoying the rush
THE ART OF FINGER DEXTERITY
#17 - MINOR SCALES AT HIGH SPEED
Otherwise you can turn around,
go back, I mean. Sure, others
will see it as defeat. They'll even
be right. "You take it right home
with you, boy." It isn't necessary,
though, to have your mind read by them.
You're what's being decided on, and that
weakness is your peculiar strength,
provided it's carried through, to the end
and its abominable consequences, the jackals
laughing at the moon till they cry.
They grow up so fast.
Besides, they'll end up moving back in.
Nothing much can be done to sweeten
that state of affairs. Nor would you want to,
given the ambiguity that tails us.