So, it's not a poetry journal, but a leftist anarchist political site emailed me yesterday they've accepted two of my poems for digital publication of a batch of Rage poems, not sure when they will appear, I will of course link
Being me, this throws me instantaneously into a writing block (or deeper into the current writing block, I've been working in haiku straitjacket, nothing frees me like constraints, worked well, being me I abandoned)
Heard three seconds of last night's debate before I could hit the play CD button, here's my friend Duncan's poem *Plane Sex*
- Cancer Under Capitalism: on Boyer's The Undying. Paywalled, if you want a PDF I can scan and send this to you next week if you email me and I like you
- Silly season
- Anxious crackers
- 2020 Republican Strategy, Final Days 2020, part one. This is not to pick on Ed, but when Trump wins we will be told it's cracker-insulters like Ed (and ME! ME! ME!) who persuaded a Fayette Country Pennsylvania with an arsenal in his basement and a Confederate Flag in his front yard to vote for Trump when said cracker *had* been planning to vote for Biden all along
- Shitlord owned media promote shitlord interests!
- Motherfucking cops
- The view from Pennsylvania: The consequences have already been displayed—the battle over the Democratic platform and the Democratic National Convention program was shaped by a deliberate strategy of outreach toward affluent Republicans alienated by Trump. This isn’t just campaign trail posturing: it’s also how Biden plans to govern, shown by his recently welcoming of Cindy McCain to his transition team. For the first time ever, the Chamber of Commerce—one of the most visible enemies of organized labor, and of working Americans—has issued widespread endorsements of Democrats on the national level.
- If this isn't EXACTLY how you knew this fuck would dodge you still don't know (or won't accept) how motherfuckedly motherfucking professional Democrats motherfucker
- Sundry combustible eructations
- The architecture of limited possibilities
- On the new DeLillo
- I have not been in Montgomery Village in years
- The Free Will and Testament of Robert Wyatt
- >> deleted bleggalgaze <<
TAR
C.K. Williams
The first morning of Three Mile Island: those first disquieting, uncertain, mystifying hours.
All morning a crew of workmen have been tearing the old decrepit roof off our building,
and all morning, trying to distract myself, I’ve been wandering out to watch them
as they hack away the leaden layers of asbestos paper and disassemble the disintegrating drains.
After half a night of listening to the news, wondering how to know a hundred miles downwind
if and when to make a run for it and where, then a coming bolt awake at seven
when the roofers we’ve been waiting for since winter sent their ladders shrieking up our wall,
we still know less than nothing: the utility company continues making little of the accident,
the slick federal spokesmen still have their evasions in some semblance of order.
Surely we suspect now we’re being lied to, but in the meantime, there are the roofers,
setting winch-frames, sledging rounds of tar apart, and there I am, on the curb across, gawking.
I never realized what brutal work it is, how matter-of-factly and harrowingly dangerous.
The ladders flex and quiver, things skid from the edge, the materials are bulky and recalcitrant.
When the rusty, antique nails are levered out, their heads pull off; the underroofing crumbles.
Even the battered little furnace, roaring along as patient as a donkey, chokes and clogs,
a dense, malignant smoke shoots up, and someone has to fiddle with a cock, then hammer it,
before the gush and stench will deintensify, the dark, Dantean broth wearily subside.
In its crucible, the stuff looks bland, like licorice, spill it, though, on your boots or coveralls,
it sears, and everything is permeated with it, the furnace gunked with burst and half-burst bubbles,
the men themselves so completely slashed and mucked they seem almost from another realm, like trolls.
When they take their break, they leave their brooms standing at attention in the asphalt pails,
work gloves clinging like Br’er Rabbit to the bitten shafts, and they slouch along the precipitous lip,
the enormous sky behind them, the heavy noontime air alive with shimmers and mirages.
Sometime in the afternoon I had to go inside: the advent of our vigil was upon us.
However much we didn’t want to, however little we would do about it, we’d understood:
we were going to perish of all this, if not now, then soon, if not soon, then someday.
Someday, some final generation, hysterically aswarm beneath an atmosphere as unrelenting as rock,
would rue us all, anathematize our earthly comforts, curse our surfeits and submissions.
I think I know, though I might rather not, why my roofers stay so clear to me and why the rest,
the terror of that time, the reflexive disbelief and distancing, all we should hold on to, dims so.
I remember the president in his absurd protective booties, looking absolutely unafraid, the fool.
I remember a woman on the front page glaring across the misty Susquehanna at those looming stacks.
But, more vividly, the men, silvered with glitter from the shingles, clinging like starlings beneath the eaves.
Even the leftover carats of tar in the gutter, so black they seemed to suck the light out of the air.
By nightfall kids had come across them: every sidewalk on the block was scribbled with obscenities and hearts. 
