Sunday, January 9, 2022

I Think I Practice the Religion of Blinking Too Much

My first job was delivering the Washington Post every morning, I had the Oakton-Woodland-Rolling perimeter, include Tulip and Hutton north of Woodland
second job at Mario’s Pizza on Summit across from elementary school I went to first grade (and met Willy Bayne, who, out of courtesy to you, I don’t remind you of the running down the cat in his green dodge dart on Ten Mile Creek Road everytime we hike Ten Mile Creek Trail which we do at least once a month, it’s the best trail in Moco)
third job was Asbury Methodist Home, an old folks harvesting factory in Gaithersburg that since has grown twenty-fold, four excellent and distinct eighteen-hole disc-golf courses could be built on the campus
I worked six weeks in the Sorry, you’re-soon-to-be-dead building as a janitor
Of course the physical distress of the patients horribly disturbing at times and yes what you imagine a janitor in a Sorry, you’re-soon-to-be-dead building often mops up this janitor mopped up but what was worse were the looks on the face of those aware enough to know what happened, the mortification, the humiliation, the despair they couldn’t will themselves to death
I quit to take a job at Arnolds Diner on Redland Road across from where now sits the big red Teachers Credit Union for hours Thursday and Friday nights and Saturdays until six for two dollars less an hour and am who I am typing this poem tonight because I did
The means exist to yoink Sarek out as soon as can be discovered, navigated, then implemented both at a get out of now but what about next level
SeatSix showed up tonight with dinner and the front desk refused entry and would and/or could not say why, though the place is three pestilential floors of contaminated human aerosol projectiles
I work at a mid-sized university and watch undergraduates flount masking rules and never felt worry, full-vaxxed and boosted and properly masked me
1/100th of the worry I get in that three-floored petrie dish
I have no idea if Sarek's been swabbed, I assume he has but who knows
No one asked me for my vaxdox, my temp was 97.2 like it always is, I checked a box on the screen vouching for my vaxdox, I understand, help has enough with the dying without fighting the dyings’ un-vaxxed visits
I forget the order much less have a complete inventory in my head of jobs 4 through my current job, there were dozens, Roys Place of course on Diamond, we all worked there, a landscaping place that ran out of a room in the Holiday Hotel on Walnut Hill where now a storage facility squats, a place on Oakmont on the railroad tracks that made windows and door frames, that job in the short few weeks taught me enough about crackers to not been wrong about them since, Crown Books of course where I met Hamster and then Earthgirl, a photomat in a strip mall in Annapolis when Earthgirl and I lived in Deale
Willy Bayne got me a job at Highs, I made it to second key night manager, without that job I would not got the Crown job and Planet wouldn't exist
Cookie Factory and Alpine Pantry in Lakeforest Mall
The only job I ever quit *not* because fuck this and fuck you the Sorry, you're-soon-to-be-dead building job, I've felt complicit ever since

A Tale of Two Authoritarians
The deep structure of Democratic crisis
Capitalism's perpetual pandemic
Plague fueled by neoliberal austerity
The rotten culture of the rich
Our shitlords' lieutenants
Postcard from Aruba
Fresh HellYear's dead
Globus Hystericus
Avedon Carol's occasional links
Maggie's weekly links
{ feuilleton }'s weekend links
Lots of Fossil Aerosol Mining Project at bandcamp


Marcus Wicker

Two spiky-haired Russian cats hit kick flips
on a vert ramp. The camera pans to another

pocket of  the room where six kids rocking holey
T-shirts etch aerosol lines on warehouse walls

in words I cannot comprehend. All of this
happening in a time no older than your last

heartbeat. I’ve been told the internet is
an unholy place — an endless intangible

stumbling ground of false deities
dogma and loneliness, sad as a pile of shit

in a world without flies. My loneliness exists
in every afterthought. Yesterday, I watched

a neighbor braid intricate waves of cornrows
into her son’s tiny head and could have lived

in her focus-wrinkled brow for a living. Today
I think I practice the religion of  blinking too much.

Today, I know no neighbor’s name and won’t
know if  I like it or not. O holy streaming screen

of counterculture punks, linger my lit mind
on landing strips — through fog, rain, hail — 

without care for time or density. O world
wide web, o viral video, o god of excrement

thought. Befriend me. Be fucking infectious.
Move my eyes from one sight to the next.

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