The Cyclone Fence of Buts Surrounds the Soccer Field of What If

Deadest Blog Days of Summer, the days surrounding July 4th, so I am compelled to post (and to post ahead of day after tomorrow when I post one of two posts a year not tagged My Complicity) to see if this can be the least read post of the calendar year (which can't be determined until I post over Thanksgiving Weekend in November, the closest competition). Also too, this *has* to be typed today: I hope Belgium beats the USMNT 10 to fucking 0 tonight



Did anyone think Dump wouldn't taint the World Cup? I sat in the conference room on the top floor of the library I work in that overlooks the Potomac above Key Bridge last Saturday afternoon and watched Dump's vanity show of military flyovers that squandered tens if not hundreds of millions of dollars and thought to myself, how strange he hasn't caused a sensationally embarrassing scandal at the World Cup as yet, et viola, the Dumpiest, most United States of Assholes fine metaphors abounding scandal. Ten to fucking Nothing tonight, please please please my Lord Diablo Etcheverry


One of those is me in a good mood, the other me in a bad mood, I don't know which is which. Pochettino must know the hell that awaits Balogun (a birthright citizen (who's playing for the USMNT solely because he stood no chance of making his preferred England squad), did Dump know?) in every European stadium he plays in and in the European football press the rest of his career if Balogun plays tonight regardless whether Belgium wins 10-0, please Lord Diablo Etcheverry, and imagine how much worse it will be if he scores the determining goal. Imagine Pochettino doing the honorable thing and benching Balogun the entire game and Belgium wins 10-0, please Lord Diablo Etcheverry, and Dump's shitfit, laugh. Not holding my breath on Pochettino doing the honorable thing, mind, would like to be wrong (I bet Balogun won't start but will be brought in as a second half sub when the USMNT is already down 7-0,  Lord Diablo Etcheverry willing). Lord Diablo, I was X-bingeing yesterday, the world's a mess it's in my kiss

I. HATE. MOTHERFUCKING. DEMOCRATS.
"Look if you think it’s fine for Trump to corruptly get a red card revoked (or “suspended”) bc FIFA is already corrupt, maybe you understand the MAGA mindset better than you think. “All politicians are corrupt so it’s ok for Trump to be corrupt” is a very common maga rationalization"
We are ruled by motherfucking sociopaths
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"I would venture to suggest that the same apathy would have greeted this event even under the leadership of the nice lady from the HR training video, whose double-dipping “historic firsts” would fit snugly into a narrative of progress that no one other than elected Democrats believes in, and that somehow no one can believe they believe in"
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We are ruled by motherfucking sociopaths
I. HATE. MOTHERFUCKING. DEMOCRATS.
Prediction Markets Offer Bets on Wildfires
Transit systems across the country are collecting information about the movement of riders via a company doing business with ICE contractor Palantir
I. HATE. MOTHERFUCKING. DEMOCRATS.
Maggie		Think, Pig!		Can't smell		Why It Looks Like Americans Don't Care
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{ feuilleton }			Liza Lim		Life w/o narrator
The difference between accuracy and music…
Alex Ross retiring			☞	"A superb writer, a brilliant thinker, and – as importantly to those of us who have been in the trade – a kind, generous colleague. Alex Ross has been the best of us for decades. And we will not see his like again—not because there are no longer any writers of vision, but because the craft is no longer deemed worthy of a comfortable, contemplative life by those who make such decisions"
☟	Lambchop's released a second song off the new album out late August, more gorgeous choiring!						☟

I AM BUT A TRAVELER IN THIS LAND & KNOW LITTLE OF ITS WAYS

Dean Young

Is everything a field of energy caused

by human projection? From the crib bars

hang the teething tools. Above the finger-drummed   

desk, a bit lip. The cyclone fence of buts

surrounds the soccer field of what if.

Sometimes it seems like a world where no one   

knows what he or she is doing, eight lanes   

both directions. How about a polymer

that contracts in response to electrical

charge? A swimming pool on the 18th floor?   

King Lear done by sock puppets? Anyone

who has traveled here knows the discrepancies

between idea and fact. The idea is the worm   

in the tequila and the next day is the fact.   

In between may be the sacred—real blood   

from the wooden virgin’s eyes, and the hoax—

landing sites in cornfields. Maybe ideas

are best sprung from actions like the children   

of Zeus. One gives us elastic and the omelette,   

another nightmares and SUVs. There’s considerable

wobble in the system, and the fan belt screams,   

waking the baby. Swaying in the darkened   

nursery, kissing the baby-smelling head:   

good idea! But also sadness looking at the sea.

The stranded whale, guided out of the cove   

by tugboats, turns and swims back in.   

The violinist will not let go her violin   

which is 200 years old and still on the train

thus she is dragged down the track. By what

manner is the soul joined to the body?   

Answer: an arm connecting a violin

to a violinist. According to Freud,

there are no accidents. Astrologists

and Presbyterians agree for different reasons.   

You fall down the stairs with a birthday cake.   

You try to fit a blunderbuss into a laptop.

Human consciousness: is it the projector

or the screen? They come in orange jumpsuits   

and spray the grass so everything dies

but the grass. It is too late to ask Kafka

what he thinks. Sometimes they give you   

a box of ash, a handshake, and the rest   

is your problem. In one version,

the beggar turns out to be a king and grants

the poor couple a castle and a moat and two   

silver horses said to be sired by the wind.

That was before dentistry, which might have been   

a better gift. You did not want to get sick   

in the 14th, 15th, 16th, 17th or 18th centuries.

So too the 19th and 20th were to be avoided

but the doctor coming to bleed you is the master   

of the short story. After the kiss from whom   

he will never know, the lieutenant, going home,

touches a bush in which birds are singing.