Apoplectic Executioners, Bungled Incisions

I wrote in tablet last night at 5pm: For the second year in a row Joe Biden's motorcade has shut down the Beltway at rush hour so he can attend a fundraising event at Bethesda Shitlord Country Club. and then at 8pm yesterday evening I saw on twaater Chuck Schumer saying Latin American immigrants need treated "within Democratic principles" and twaated back: "Democratic principles means Gazan children having limbs amputated with no anesthesia from bombing fully funded and supported through our genocidal Mideast colony and its zionist zealots," I'm seething, thanks for asking

The Artist Giving the Finger: to be honest, like everything I make, from paintings to parked disc ups for a rare birdie putt to human relationships, I depend entirely on coincidence which occasionally morphs into serendipity: the finger found me, I did not find the finger

Among my most biting apostasies my discovery that I don't find solace in seething I once did which must mean the seething that soothed when I was younger must not have been genuine but performative seething and that the seething I don't find that solace in now will also appear performative to me tomorrow. Waah

I haven't typed this in this space in years, at first by design and then by dotage: I (and my cohort of last round of baby-boomers) am the trajectory of America from rise to peak and then now bitter enfeeblement and fatal decline. Do you know I once thought I'd enjoy seething unto empire's death and that I don't, beyond my guilt of the world my generation is leaving to my daughter, my angriest, most deservedly bitter apostasy

At the blue place (I've a fuckton of invites if you want one) I subheaded the site this site's old subhead, Canary, Weathervane, Cassandra, Fool. I can't stop seething it needs said before I assert I don't want to, though I need seethe better, not more effectively (since I seethe to no effect at all) but seethe with more focus, with less spillage into those pockets of my life that I poison with seething's corrosive side-effects. My posting less of late here an attempt to concentrate my seething into bursts rather than blurts, for all the good it's done me. Yes, this is a bleggalgaze, my apologies. Here's this shitty blog's Angry Song, Fleabus on drums and guitar, Stanley vocals

BLOOD MONEY: THE TOP TEN POLITICIANS TAKING THE MOST ISRAEL LOBBY CASH
The Long War on Gaza:
⇧	"The current desecration of Gaza is the latest stage in a process that has taken increasingly violent forms over time. In the fifty-six years since it occupied the Strip in 1967, Israel has transformed Gaza from a territory politically and economically integrated with Israel and the West Bank into an isolated enclave, from a functional economy to a dysfunctional one, from a productive society to an impoverished one. It has likewise removed Gaza’s residents from the sphere of politics, transforming them from a people with a nationalist claim to a population whose majority requires some form of humanitarian aid to sustain themselves"
	"Violence in Gaza has not only or even primarily been a military matter, as it is now. It has been a matter of everyday, ordinary acts: the struggle to access water and electricity, feed one’s children, find a job, get to school safely, reach a hospital, even bury a loved one. For decades the pressure on Palestinians in Gaza has been immense and unrelenting. The damage it has done—high levels of unemployment and poverty, widespread infrastructural destruction, and environmental degradation, including dangerous contamination of water and soil, among other factors—has become a permanent condition."
Going Mask-Off About The Two-State Solution Lie
Settler colonial states have a terminal shelf life. Israel is no exception.
"When Israeli president Isaac Herzog described the assault on Gaza as a war “to save Western civilization, to save the values of Western civilization,” he wasn’t really lying. He was telling the truth — just maybe not quite in the way that he meant it"
HOW AMERICAN LIBERALISM ENABLES PALESTINIAN GENOCIDE IN REAL TIME
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Imperialist Propaganda and the Ideology of the Western Left Intelligentsia: From Anticommunism and Identity Politics to Democratic Illusions and Fascism
In 2024, newsrooms will be under intense internal pressure to defend democracy?
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UNDERGROUND ZOMBIE STREAMS!
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IF BERLIN (poems) if berlin (poems)
Julia Kristeva: Dostoyevsky in the Face of Death or Language Haunted by Sex
What I am giving my daughter for giftmas

EIGHT VARIATIONS

Weldon Kees

1.

         Prurient tapirs gamboled on our lawns,

         But that was quite some time ago.

         Now one is accosted by asthmatic bulldogs,

         Sluggish in the hedges, ruminant.

         Moving through ivy in the park

         Near drying waterfalls, we open every gate;

         But that grave, shell-white unicorn is gone.

         The path is strewn with papers to the street.

         Numbers that once were various

         Regarded us, were thought significant, significant

         Enough to bring reporters to the scene.

         But now the bell strikes one, strikes one,

         Strikes one—monotonous and tired.

         Or clicks like a sad valise.

    2. Note to Be Left on the Table

    This ghost of yours, padding about the upper halls,

    Given to fright-wigs Burbage might have worn,

    Moaning in doorways, jumping out at maids,

    Has not convinced me even yet. Can this be you?

    Your life was frightening enough, but this

    Poor pallid counterpart who fuddles in its role

    Is inexcusable. Go haunt the houses of the girls

    You once infected, or the men who bore

    Your company far oftener than I; annoy the others

    For a change. Is this, my house, the medieval hell

    You took to at the grave’s edge, years ago,

    After a dozen other hells had burned themselves away,

    Or are we purgatory here? If not,

    You make it one. I give you until noon.

3.

Ruined travelers in sad trousseaux

Roost on my doorstep, indolent and worn.

Not one of them fulfills despised Rousseau’s

Predictions. Perhaps they are waiting to be born.

If so, the spot’s been badly chosen.

This is a site for posthumous investigations,

Pillows stuffed with nettles, charnal notions:

Apoplectic executioners, bungled incisions.

Indeed, our solitary midwife fondles the hemlock.

We welcomed one poor hackneyed Christ,

Sad bastard, croaking of pestilence. The basement

Holds him now. He has not as yet arisen.

The tickets are ready; the line forms on the right.

Justice and virtue, you will find, have been amazingly preserved.

         4.

         As water from a dwindling reservoir

         Uncovers mossy stones, new banks of silt,

         So every minute that I spend with you reveals

         New flaws, new features, new intangibles.

         We have been sitting here for hours—

         “I spent that summer in Madrid,

         The winter on the coast of France—

         The Millotsons were there, and Farnsworth.

         My work has perished with the rest

         Of Europe, gone, all gone. We will not see the end.”

         You said goodbye, and your perfume

         Lingered for hours. At first it seemed

         Like summer dying there, then rank and sharp.

         And yet I did not air the room.

      5.

      Among Victorian beadwork and the smell of plush,

      The owls, stuffed and marvelously sinister,

      Glare from dark corners, waiting for the night.

      High up, the moose’s passive eyes explore

      Candles, unlit, within cut-glass. A door

      Is opened, and you enter with a look

      You might have saved for Pliny or the Pope.

      The furniture has shrunk now thirty years

      Have passed (with talent thinning out, and words

      Gone dead), and mouths of friends in photographs

      Display their hopeful and outmoded smiles.

      You counted on at least a sputter of nostalgia,

      However fretful. That was a mistake. Even the moose

      Regards you with a tired, uncomprehending stare.

         6.

         Signboards commemorate their resting place.

         The graveless of another century

         Came and were conquered; now their bones

         Are dust where idiot highways run.

         Land in their eyes, unquiet ancestors

         (On fences yellow signs clang in the wind)

         Unstirred by suns drying the brown weeds

         Above them now in parched and caking land.

         But when they speak of you, they feel the need

         Of voices polished and revised by history,

         The martial note, words framed in capitals.

         It is good to be deaf in a deafening time

         With the sky gone colorless, while the dead

         Thunder breaks, a cracked dish, out of the mind.

      7.

      The eye no longer single: where the bowl,

      Dead in the thickened darkness, swelled with light,

      Transformed the images and moved the artist’s hand,

      Becomes a framework for our mania.

      And haunts the stairway. Friends depart,

      Taking their last look from the roof,

      Saying goodnight and carrying their view

      Of grapes the model ate in Paris years ago.

      Blue in the morning, green some afternoons;

      The night, ambiguous, forgets the signature.

      The dust in attics settled and his stove

      Grew cold. About the model nothing much is known.

      It ends the wall and complements the view

      Of chimneys. And it hides a stain.

         8.

         And when your beauty, washed away

         In impure streams with my desire,

         Is only topic for ill-mannered minds,

         Gifted and glassy with exact recall,

         Gossip and rancid footnotes, or remote despair,

         Let ruined weather perish in the streets

         And let the world’s black lying flag come down.

         Only in calendars that mark no Spring

         Can there be weather in the mind

         That moves to you again as you are now:

         Tired after love and silent in this house,

         Your back turned to me, quite alone,

         Standing with one hand raised to smooth your hair,

         At a small window, green with rain.