What is so ecstatic unknowable cutthroat glad as the walls of the flesh of the voice of betrayal —yet all the while lapped in talk more dull than the tick of a clock. A puppy learns to listen this way
L, formerly known here as Earthgirl (that's new Shakey), asked me to again go to No Kings with her tomorrow and of course I said yes. Unlike the previous two, the nearest one won't be on the Strathmore Music Hall campus - they refused to allow it - No Kings is from 11am to 1pm - since the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra is performing a treacly motherfucking Tchaikovsky (today in redundancy) symphony at 8pm, the fuck? Tchaikovsky? Kill me. Will be at the White Flint metro station - locals know the anger embedded in that naming. The fuck is this dope posting on a Friday afternoon, he asks himself. Hey, remember when Bardo Pond covered Brian Eno? I did this morning out of nowhere
Home from Michigan. In the drive-around sampling, I saw 16 Al-Sayed yard signs, the majority in Washtenaw County, 13 Rogers yards signs, the majority in Jackson and Ingham counties, both as expected. Did not see a single bumper-sticker for any candidate. Voters of both parties, I was told by my son-in-law's father at the family dinner I am required to attend every trip, are united in wanting the election over and all hate their party just less than they hate their shitty candidate's opponent. Nothing has changed. Hey, there was a rare Airborne Event this past Tuesday evening, Dan played this from one of my trinity of musical Richards:
I did see plenty of signage offering, for example, Train Like a Navy Seal businesses. A local, Justin, I disc with when I'm in Michigan who is certainly not maga tells me local militias are recruiting and thriving and preparing for both election day at the polls and for the days after. He told me to listen late at night for a sudden explosion of squeal-outs and speeding as local white male pick-up truck Americans practice deployment and encirclement, and last Saturday around one in the morning yes, with gun shots. I said, too many people think if the midterms are the bloodbath for Trump and magamerica in the voters booth some are predicting then everything will be rebooted and crackers and christers (and Trump, his henchman, his shitlords) will passively accept and respect the results. People, Justin said, better get ready, which put Eva Cassidy's cover of the Curtis Mayfield song in my head where it's been to this moment, L & I were at this show at Blues Alley in Georgetown
The above and below were added before Trump canceled the live stream, he didn't do it for moral but for electoral reasons of course. The cancelation does not lessen the evil motives of those who wanted the killing streamed
I can't take a photo of it this moment because I am in Michigan, but my copy of *Nox* is (a brilliant work of poetry) one of my cherished objects, it's, simply as an object to hold, gorgeous
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Here's another one or my trinity of musical Richards, he's the flutist and singer
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Here Is My Propaganda One One One One Oneing On Your Forehead Like Droplets of Luminous Sin
Anne Carson
Like many a wife I boosted the husband up to Godhood and held him there.
What is strength?
Opposition of friends or family merely toughens it.
I recall my mother’s first encounter with him.
Glancing
at a book I’d brought home from school with his name inscribed on the flyleaf
she said
I wouldn’t trust anyone who calls himself X—and
something exposed itself in her voice,
a Babel
thrust between us at that instant which we would never
learn to construe—
taste of iron.
Prophetic. Her prophecies all came true although she didn’t
mean them to.
Well it’s his name I said and put the book away. That was the first night
(I was fifteen)
I raised my bedroom window creak by creak and went out to meet him
in the ravine, traipsing till dawn in the drenched things
and avowals
of the language that is “alone and first in mind.” I stood stupid
before it,
watched its old golds and lieblicher blues abandon themselves
like peacocks stepping out of cages into an empty kitchen of God.
God
or some blessed royal personage. Napoleon. Hirohito. You know
how novelist Ōe
describes the day Hirohito went on air and spoke
as a mortal man. “The adults sat around the radio
and cried.
Children gathered in the dusty road and whispered bewilderment.
Astonished
and disappointed that their emperor had spoken in a voice.
Looked at one another in silence. How to believe God had
become human
on a designated summer day?” Less than a year after our marriage
my husband
began to receive calls from [a woman] late at night.
If I answered [she]
hung up. My ears grew hoarse.
How are you.
—
No.
—
Maybe. Eight. Can you.
—
The white oh yes.
—
Yes.
What is so ecstatic unknowable cutthroat glad as the walls
of the flesh
of the voice of betrayal —yet all the while lapped in talk more dull
than the tick of a clock.
A puppy
learns to listen this way. Sting in the silver.
Ōe says
many children were told and some believed that when the war was over
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