You Stare and Furious Stare, Confident There Are No Gods Out There

The house in Munith Michigan's wifi blows, my daughter tells me everyone's wifi blows in rural Michigan unless the homeowner purchases super-expensive satellite wifi, below a bog in Waterloo Recreation Area, a section that bans hunting, we hiked it yesterday before my daughter delivered us our bright orange vests last night at dinner, this, still gorgeous, is a copy of the photo uploaded to my phone on twitter, the wifi will not download the photo sent from my phone to email, no photo captures real time image, this doesn't capture the real time photo image

Besides the Waterloo Recreation Area another plus of Michigan: weed is way cheaper and way better in Michigan, some of you are in for very good giftmas presents, at more than half the cost of what lesser weed would cost in DC, Wonka Bar 13 for all of you! Song from yesterday's drive to store and then to Portage Lake Disc Golf Course and then back to the house

My complicity and privilege not used to shitty wifi, and I love you but I'm not sitting in the Jackson Panera with the unmasked for the free wifi, these may be your last links until next week, plan to not read here accordingly if linkage is your purpose here
On rationalizing the drowning world we inhabit
The revenge of the essential worker?
Reminder: one of key shitlord projects is to constantly remind you you are not only not essential you are existentially dispensable
Disintegration				noitargetnisid
Trump flags and signs everywhere, half 2020, half 2024, and on Interstate 94 recurring billboards saying Making Taliban Stronger Since 2021 with photoshop of Biden in Islamic turban
The Great New Normal Purge
Above offered as reminder that covid can be both the public health danger it's considered *and* that shitlords are exploiting it for totalitarian reasons and that the latter is scarier than the former
Stores here about 30/70 masked, or at least the weed store, I was fully masked (and in my Guided by Voices baseball hat), I risked my life for your giftmas present
The destruction of the United Kingdom
Productivity in late-shitlordism
We have our orange vests now, we heard no gun shots yesterday which I mentioned to the two locals I played a round with at the Portage Lake Disc Golf Course and they told me of course not, it's bow-hunting season, I won't hear what kills me until a zzzt a second before the arrow hits me, what little political talk we had agreed upon the cynical uselessness of motherfucking Democrats, neither seemed a Trump flag-flyer, both resigned to shit never getting better
Another song on drive, I meh-plussed the album at first but I'm dropping the meh, it may never be love but it's growing on me

FIELD OF SKULLS

Mary Karr

Stare hard enough at the fabric of night,   

and if you're predisposed to dark—let’s say   

the window you’ve picked is a black

postage stamp you spend hours at,

sleepless, drinking gin after the I Love   

Lucy reruns have gone off—stare

like your eyes have force, and behind

any night’s taut scrim will come the forms   

you expect pressing from the other side.   

For you: a field of skulls, angled jaws

and eye-sockets, a zillion scooped-out crania.   

They’re plain once you think to look.

You know such fields exist, for criminals

roam your very block, and even history lists   

monsters like Adolf and Uncle Joe

who stalk the earth’s orb, plus minor baby-eaters   

unidentified, probably in your very midst. Perhaps   

that disgruntled mail clerk from your job

has already scratched your name on a bullet—that’s him   

rustling in the azaleas. You caress the thought,

for it proves there’s no better spot for you

than here, your square-yard of chintz sofa, hearing   

the bad news piped steady from your head. The night   

is black. You stare and furious stare,

confident there are no gods out there. In this way,   

you’re blind to your own eye’s intricate machine   

and to the light it sees by, to the luck of birth and all   

your remembered loves. If the skulls are there—

let’s say they do press toward you

against night’s scrim—could they not stare

with slack jawed envy at the fine flesh

that covers your scalp, the numbered hairs,   

at the force your hands hold?