The Crash, as It Must, Arrives

The shitlord who owns the local professional helmetball team he swore would always be called the Racial Slurs is now in more and more severe legal jeopardy. Said shitlord's game is/was to delay in the House until the Republican majority in January disappears the congressional investigation into said shitlords' assholic behavior, the new problem is a DC Attorney General's investigation and signals from the AG’s office suggest an imminent kaboom. 

Said shitlord says he's hired private investigators to dig up dirt to blackmail the other shitlord helmetball team owners from kicking said shitlord's miserable ass out of the Shitlord Helmetball Club. What will it cost the 31 other professional helmetball team owners to make said shitlord go away or will they call his bluff? Big helmetball team owner shindig tomorrow (Tuesday 18th) imagine the conversations as I type this sentence at 19:27 EDT Monday 17th while they’re eating I-hope-they-choke-on-it steak

(O Shitlords! Shitlords' job's pitting sociopathic shitlord wannabes against each other to best ratfuck you and me so shitlords can focus on ratfucking each other in their zero-sum Who's the Shitlordiest Shitlord Game)

As I type *this* sentence at 18:43 EDT Tuesday 18th Jim Irsay, owner of the Indianapolis Colts and son of the shitlord that snuck the Colts out of Baltimore in the middle of the night, after Tuesday's meetings, said the owner of the local helmetball team once known as Racial Slurs should be voted out of The Shitlord Helmetball Club. No reports of any shitlord helmetball owner choking on his steak Monday night, dammit, how's that for a euphemism for the climax of a tired joke about helmetball and all the money you've paid into social security that will be stolen by 2026 and fine metaphors abounding, I'll be housed in 6’ x 6’ x 6’ cage in a re-education facility and let out only for an hour daily to be beaten almost to death daily by Oathkeeper prison guards by 2030, the packages of smelling salts they use to revive me to beat me some more all emblazoned with the image of Emperor DeSantis' snidely scowling crowned head

In good news for you, scanners are down (and can't capture inks' colors anyway), in good news for everyone, there's a great new power-poppy Guided by Voices song

All opscay are bastards, sheriffs are SUPER bastards
When politics gives you a moron, make moronade
You're paid too much so shitlords will crash the economy
The gaslighting of the masses
Chronic stress as a way of life						I have been, still am, and will always tell you three times we are being reprogrammed
Cops arm robots w weapons, you'll meet one someday
American inquisition				Tomorrow's corals
Biden's new imperial strategy
The profoundly stupid narrative that nuclear brinksmanship is safety and de-escalation is danger
Imperative betrayal			#1272: How Dreams Change
Sugarloaf Mountain owner threatens to close Sugarloaf
James Purdy will never be famous again
Claire Rousay interviews Circuit Des Yeux (and visa versa)
Some thoughts on loving shorter poems and prose poems
The sound makes all the difference
On the new Archers of Loaf album (which will download in my bandcamp Friday and be listened to on drive to Michigan Saturday

TWO KEROSINE LANTERNS

Jane Hirshfield

The cat walks the narrow shelf beneath the window
where many delicate things are arranged—polished ammonites,
a dried starfish, three turtle netsuke,
a few curls of birch bark, two long-unused kerosene lanterns.

As if on their own, two hands fly up to cover the person’s face,
to cover the eyes already closed.

The crash, as it must, arrives.

The hands lower slowly.
The cat sits on the floor in the room’s middle, calmly licking one paw.

The law of cats is simple: one arrangement becomes another.

People are strange.