If You Should Ever Get Normally Sentient Enough to Notice the Weather, You Might Drop a Line to your, XXX, Margie

For the past two months Chinese-based bots (according to my statcounter logs) have been scrubbing this blog from start to finish, today I received this email

(It's very urgent, therefore we kindly ask you to forward this email to your CEO. If you believe this has been sent to you in error, please ignore it. Thanks)

Dear CEO,

We are the domain registration and solution center in China. We received an application from Hongshun Ltd on May 9, 2024. They want to register "blckdgrd" as their internet keyword and China (CN) domain names (blckdgrd.cn, blckdgrd.com.cn, blckdgrd.net.cn, blckdgrd.org.cn). But after checking it, we find this name conflict with your company name or trademark. In order to deal with this matter better, it's necessary to send email to you and confirm whether this company is your distributor in China?

 

Best Regards

Thomas Liu | Service & Operations Manager

China Registry (Head Office

Tel: +86-2161918696

Fax: +86-2161918697

Mob: +86-13816428671

No. 1780 Wuzhong Road, Shanghai 201103, China

The url was provided in the signature but no, not posted here. 

Rest in Power, Steve Albini. I don't know whether said bots are scrubbing pOj (if they are, wordpress' stats thing doesn't think so and at least I had the grace to not add statcounter there) nor whether said bots scrubbing prior iterations of this blog (I killed those statcounters). The fuck? Is this phish, a prank? Fifteen seconds of Google research suggests Hongshun is big, that's as much time as I'm putting in this and I won't respond but if they write back and offer money how much should I demand? 

They are not going to write back and offer money, I'm not stupid enough to (think this anything but a scam) be flattered they liked my brandname enough to buy it (and if they read this - I have neither the damn much less the wherewithal to sue your ass if you steal it), the fuck would a Chinese corporation want w BLCKDGRD? Below recorded/mixed by Steve Albini

Meanwhile, clusterfucking still clusterfucking, see grid below. On Tuesday Joe Biden called you an antisemite with a genetic disposition to want to kill Jews and condemned student violence at protests while siccing violent police on student protests and on Wednesday put out a press statement that is certainly fake and misleading that he's cutting off Israel from 2000 pound bombs if Israel attacks Rafah, pissing off the people against his genocide and pissing off people delighted by his genocide is (a perfect metaphor for motherfucking Democrats) an excellent election strategy, the two songs below recorded/mixed by Steve Albini

Finest metaphor abounding: NYT wins Pulitzer
"The empire can handle being on the wrong side of an issue; it has all the media and mainstream culture-manufacturing institutions on its side, which allows it to frame public perception of that issue in a way that quells dissent. What it absolutely cannot handle is a critical mass of young people deciding the imperial murder machine sucks, and that opposing it is fun and makes you cool."
The crumbling of the myths of free speech and the West’s moral leadership
"Fascism is an elite solution to the organic crisis of a profit regime confronted by the threat of organized class struggle amid the vacillations of an imperialist order"
☝	Tech bro fascism looks like a lot like old-fashioned fascism						☝
We drive to Michigan Saturday for five days visiting daughter and son-in-law, this will or won't be the last post for a bit
Text of the Gaza ceasefire proposal approved by Hamas
Israel begins military operation in Rafah, hours after Hamas agrees to a cease-fire
"I think we should've gone into Rafah yesterday already... There are no uninvolved (civilians) there. You have to go in and kill and kill and kill... We have to kill them before they kill us"
Genocide Joe is beginning to stink like Lyndon B. Johnson
A Response to Zadie Smith’s “Shibboleth”
Another Bogus Antisemitism Scare
Student Protests, State Violence, and Spatial Power
Campus protest in images				England your England
Liberalism without Accountability
WHY ASSET MANAGERS OWN THE WORLD
A mystery surrounds Donald Trump: if he is so good at selling himself, why is he so bad at selling his own-brand products?
What Counts as Consciousness
New York Times editor Joe Kahn says defending democracy is a partisan act and he won’t do it
On not writing			The Unlearning Of Empathy
Exploring the mysterious alphabet of sperm whales
THE POP and STALIN THING: ART and EVIL or ART and NONSENSE or WHAT and WHY?
THE PROBLEM WITH MUSIC
A Very Selfish Enterprise: The Strange World Of... Shellac
Three hours of Albini music and Albini produced music on Therese's show last night!
Thurston Moore's RIP Steve Albini
Rest in Power, Steve Albini

FEB 25

Alice Notley

Dear Nutso,
     Wal, it's pretty blank
around here. The cat
is hungry, & Hubby hasta
get up early (those two
paired are not a sig-
nificance for your cheap
little mindlessness to ponder).
How could I ever
miss you? everytime I
do I slap myself on my
cheek & read a chapter of
The New Hairdresser's Manual.
If you should
ever get normally sentient
enough to notice the
weather, you might drop
a line to your,
                       XXX
                                 Margie

A Manic Forgetter Froze My Meats

Over 1500 pings from Amazon bots in Singapore, each with a different IP address, all on Android devices, in the past 24 hours while simultaneously over 750 pings from Apple bots in Shanghai, each with a different IP address, the fuck? I've yet to receive a BlueSky invite, am I being vetted instead of scrubbed? No, when twitter crashes or Melon becomes so vile even my vanity can't keep me on twaater I will not joing (sic) Threads, I'll not trade one dueling shitty shitlord to be shittiest shitlord for another. Mastodon sucketh, I'm there though I've looked once in two months, I can't, I won't, will I? Below now one side of the 47th hexjeff card, the original plan was 52 (so 104 hexjeffs) but can't imagine quitting, fine metaphors abounding


Day after tomorrow one of two posts a year not tagged My Complicity, the other person involved will be at her dead mother's second husband's family condo on the beach south of St Augustine in motherfucking Florida (I won't be and will never set foot in Florida again, though to be fair I hated - HATED! - Florida decades before DeSantis, Florida blows (plus I hate the beach, hate, people can vouch)), laugh, hence today's post rushed, lucky my manic and my fuck-it upticking as is my disc game - I bought a Sidewinder and Leopard each twenty to twenty-five grams lighter than their brethren in bag, each adding fifty to seventy-five feet to drives, I three-d Hole 21 at Seneca, sponsored by me and SeatSix, basket in C, driving with the lighter Sidewinder, uping with the lighter Leopard, felt like an eagle, and I've found my putter after twenty-five years, a Wedge (though forehand long puts still with the Aviar with the Missing Low Is Lame sticker on bottom)). Last Sunday broke 90 on 27 hole Seneca with baskets but three all in C, best round of my life, playing tomorrow and Sunday, guaranteed to suck, I'm so upbeat to play, fine metaphors abound re: me, my game, the inevitable crestfallenness. The new PJ Harvey album dropped today, lordy

The Empire's disinformation loop

The Great Bank Robbery Of 2023

Clock-time is the very condition of the production of capitalist profit or surplus value

The Return of Child Labor Is the Latest Sign of American Decline

All opscay are astardbays, and why, Today in Rhetorical Questions! won't CBS Chicago use the word "raped?"

Post-Anthropocene Humanism

Some of yinz dig Pasolini, here

I was born without the Elliott Smith gene but I know some of you were so here

More Some of yinz dig Pasolini, here

I was born without the Teenage Fanclub gene but I know some of you were so here

PJ HARVEY About Working On Her New Album

LATE MELT

Melissa Broder

I had not vomited in so long

Someone put the hex on my true-to-selfness

Some sorcerer kept me far from my guts

The guts I feared would choke me

And make me ashamed of having no wings

And drown my own heart

I know how to survive a feeling

But I forgot that I knew it

A manic forgetter froze my meats

I kept asking for help when I didn't need it

My demons stared out from the ice

When they finally thawed they'd been dead all along

And now I am the walking thawed

You survive yourself if you wait long enough

And vomit your guts down your defrosted breast

And bathe in your mess and say baby it's fine

« wild » fire’s roiling, locust-clouded « our » stampede—as if ignoring a war

That's old, I had cause to think of it. First time I've typed in digital tablet since May 23. I wrote in analog tablet every day since May 23. Here's creepy: between May 23 and June 7 Evernote added a new feature, AI Cleanup. I don't have a hot take on AI and sense I'm not freaked out enough yet and I'm OK with that, I'm fat from the freak out buffet I already wolf down daily. I think it probably a blessing I don't have the scifi gene. I'm a third into Lord Jim and a fourth into Idiot and can't remember the next day what I read the day before, I've never needed bookmarks more than now, I could read the same chapter four days in a row, unaware then dimly aware then you dumbfuck aware. AI. Some day I won't need to tell you three times we are being reprogrammed, we'll talk about something else waiting our turn to be fresh meat ground in an abattoir

As I type this New Yorkers advised to not go outside and if they must wear a mask because of Canadian wildfires' smoke, in DC it's the brightest foggy day I've ever seen. Polar icepacks are melting. Did you know that the day I typed this the heat index in parts of Puerto Rico was 125 degrees fahrenheit? Remember how once upon by June 1st yards twinkled with fireflies? Where I live as I type this is six inches short of rain for the year, a friend and colleague who's a rabid gardener and brings me her just-off-the-vine tomatoes I eat, juice running down my chin, like apples, tells me local apple crops two weeks to shittier quality and six weeks to failure without multiple days of saturating rain. The bad El Niño predicted for this Summer hasn't started yet and is predicted to be worse in 2024. Enjoy this Summer. If you make it to next Summer next Summer is gonna suck. Reminder: AI funded by shitlords who never want to talk to much less encounter in any fashion any fucking not-dead-yet peasant again

Two above new PJ Harvey songs off an album out in August. Been thinking about musicians and bands and authors and poets I once liked, loved, revered. Who aged first, me or he/she/they/them? Who broke it off most, that most important +.0001st of every relationship? Exhibit One: Talking Heads. Is it me tiring of the music, another I don't ever need to hear any Beatles songs EVER AGAIN except George's *Northern Song* (and even that not so much now) and *All Too Much* or learning (or more accurately confirming what I suspected) that Bryne an ick human? Anyway, I've always, still do, and hope to always love PJ Harvey though why she drops off my radar now and then solely my what the fuck was I talking about, the two songs above new, and two earlier Polly Jean below and yowza. Maybe I should type in digital table more, maybe I shouldn't, and copy/pasting from evernote to blooger every fart the fucking hassle I deserve

Unlike dogs, our feline friends are barely different from their wild ancestors

Cornel West Announces He is Running for President

The expected dismissal and derision was strongest in my tesla timeline not from professional Democrats, a few bothered, but from professional philosophers with academic scaffolding and wrap-up PhD thesis soon-to-be-adjunct faculty wage slaves, as I should have bet you infinite digital pints it'd be

Cornel West Announces He is Running for President

*Should* West gain ANY traction, *then* the professional Democrats bone-sawing begins, they'll Khashoggi his ass

Idle rich baffled by poor people's distaste for dangerous, low-paying jobs

The Demon in America's Sacred Narrative

He hates the Russians and says let the blood flow

No - Such Propaganda Delusions Will Not Win The War

A thoroughly dishonest and cynical apology for Ukrainian fascism, past and present.

Congress likely to hide defense spending in new Ukraine aid bill

More Than Half of America’s 100 Richest People Exploit Special Trusts to Avoid Estate Taxes

They can't stress enough, both parties want a police state & are doing all in their power to hasten one

The fake news about Fake News

Boiling Brook Pkwy one of the weirdest secret roads in Moco and this shopping center THE weirdest secret shopping center in Moco

An Illustrated Guide to Mouth Gestures and Their Meanings Around the World

New (Eno-produced) Peter Gabriel song

Four decades ago a new Peter Gabriel album would be cause for celebration but then he put out So and I said goodbye (the current bald man face-mullet doesn't effect the music but please)

"Close Readings” of New York School Poets — Frank O’Hara, James Schuyler, John Ashbery, and Kenneth Koch (and Much More)

*

Miriam Bird Greenberg

Whole towns like • horses turnt loose in the bardo of •

« wild » fire’s roiling, locust-clouded « our » stampede—as if

ignoring a war two counties over meant it couldn’t come

closer—plague-black | ened forests consumed by a burnt

• wind: « and untamable » a lithe and lumbering creature cities-

sized, mitosis-prone, come to lick clean the tinder « tender

ly » face of village mid-stampede. Caressing • lost wedding

pictures, kitchen tables, • dogs lured in « runaway » terror in

to the inferno, it leaps roads in its roving. Whole towns re

made over • and far • in « night » parking lots where « away »

wander once-middle-class refugees the fire’s made. Atop

an RV, a parrot’s perched, and for its human from whom

it’s learned, its gift: Fuck you. Its every world of instinct • breach

ed, and black « trust- » its human-made ruin. Hello?

The Carrion-Stinking Dog Who Is Calf of Human and Wolf

First news story on DC's news/talk/radio station after turning on car to drive to work this morning news that four thoroughbred horses were tortured and murdered for human entertainment at Churchill Downs in the past week and I'm sideways and daydreaming of shooting people.

I've said this many times: I'm not interested in torture, I'd be quick and merciful, blammo, one bullet, in one ear and out the other. Carrion with my work, sideways. Related, I can't quit yellow and orange and pink. (UPDATE!) Not a balm much less salvation but mwah nonetheless, here's a new PJ Harvey song

MAGIC EIGHT BALL SAYS *NO!*
He will torture the rest of us until we agree to make him President to prove that there is nothing wrong with him
On the University of Crackerstan
The oceans are missing their rivers
SOME QUESTIONS ABOUT POLITICAL CAPITALISM
Shithole country: 10-year-old children found working at McDonald’s until 2 a.m.
Capitalism’s inherent predilection for excess
The fucksters who will steal your pension and 401K retirement savings
Big Ag wants to guarantee the carrion you eat (stop, you ghoul) comes from certified tortured and abused animals
I don't daydream of shooting you in one ear out the other because you buy and eat certified tortured and abused animals but for all that is fucking holy stop buying and eating tortured and abused animals, Beloveds, please
CORRUPTION PLAIN AND SIMPLE
New Jim O'Rourke!			Old PJ Harvey song				⤋

THE COWS ON KILLING DAY

Les Murray

All me are standing on feed. The sky is shining.

All me have just been milked. Teats all tingling still
from that dry toothless sucking by the chilly mouths
that gasp loudly in in in, and never breathe out.

All me standing on feed, move the feed inside me.
One me smells of needing the bull, that heavy urgent me,
the back-climber, who leaves me humped, straining, but light
and peaceful again, with crystalline moving inside me.

Standing on wet rock, being milked, assuages the calf-sorrow in me.
Now the me who needs mounts on me, hopping, to signal the bull.

The tractor comes trotting in its grumble; the heifer human
bounces on top of it, and cud comes with the tractor,
big rolls of tight dry feed: lucerne, clovers, buttercup, grass,
that’s been bitten but never swallowed, yet is cud.
She walks up over the tractor and down it comes, roll on roll
and all me following, eating it, and dropping the good pats.

The heifer human smells of needing the bull human
and is angry. All me look nervously at her
as she chases the dog me dream of horning dead: our enemy
of the light loose tongue. Me’d jam him in his squeals.

Me, facing every way, spreading out over feed.

One me is still in the yard, the place skinned of feed.
Me, old and sore-boned, little milk in that me now,
licks at the wood. The oldest bull human is coming.

Me in the peed yard. A stick goes out from the human
and cracks, like the whip. Me shivers and falls down
with the terrible, the blood of me, coming out behind an ear.
Me, that other me, down and dreaming in the bare yard.

All me come running. It’s like the Hot Part of the sky
that’s hard to look at, this that now happens behind wood
in the raw yard. A shining leaf, like off the bitter gum tree
is with the human. It works in the neck of me
and the terrible floods out, swamped and frothy. All me make the Roar,
some leaping stiff-kneed, trying to horn that worst horror.
The wolf-at-the-calves is the bull human. Horn the bull human!

But the dog and the heifer human drive away all me.

Looking back, the glistening leaf is still moving.
All of dry old me is crumpled, like the hills of feed,
and a slick me like a huge calf is coming out of me.

The carrion-stinking dog, who is calf of human and wolf,
is chasing and eating little blood things the humans scatter,
and all me run away, over smells, toward the sky.

Hurts You to Think of Him Ranking the Conversation

Lockdown and cats and the latest cat rankings now we're tired of each other: 

1. Fleabus
2. Napoleon
3. Rosie
4. MomCat
5. Olive
6. Stanley
7. Frankie

Fleabus and Napoleon one tier, Rosie a second, Olive and Stanley a third, Frankie just eats the food, gives back nothing

There is a much larger gap between Olive/Stanley and Rosie than between Fleabus/Napoleon and Rosie, photo below

            

• No Sanders obit from me, he never would be permitted to win for reasons I'm not rebarking
• Trump permitted, will be again 
• One last time Sanders and the plague: the DNC attack on Sanders, which would have happened plague or no plague but which was urgently coordinated and implemented in late February with a brutal efficiency motherfucking professional Democrats don't want you to know they are capable, made necessary because of full knowledge of the coming collapse of the economy and the need to neuter Sanders before full effect of the kaboom common knowledge
• The virus and the cult of political leadership
• I still think our shitlords aren't the bumblefucks they play on TV, that some coordination between marketing and gaming exists, that it's not just incompetence with randomized coincidences, fellow complicit thrall
• That weird pain in your nuts and the limits of telemedicine
• Wednesday this week, the same day Sanders withdraws, the first Washington Post *the plague may not be as apocalyptic as predicted* headlines, and post Sanders withdrawal insurance stock soared
• When the head of the Catholic Church is more woke than any American politician of any umph
• Utterly believable
• The imminent financial scam crisis
• Joe Biden is evil
• Renderings
• See previous post, I wanted to test the Charley's whiteout method (my apologies, Charley, my fingers just ie because I've known many Charlies, you're the only ey) of motherfucking Democratting, I like! I'll stop.
• Prison for the dead
• Diary 6-? 
• Remember (asking me) when I posted Carl Dennis poems here all the time
• Remember (asking you) when I posted PJ Harvey songs here all the time?

THE GOD WHO LOVES YOU

Carl Dennis

It must be troubling for the god who loves you   

To ponder how much happier you’d be today   

Had you been able to glimpse your many futures.

It must be painful for him to watch you on Friday evenings   

Driving home from the office, content with your week—

Three fine houses sold to deserving families—

Knowing as he does exactly what would have happened   

Had you gone to your second choice for college,   

Knowing the roommate you’d have been allotted   

Whose ardent opinions on painting and music   

Would have kindled in you a lifelong passion.   

A life thirty points above the life you’re living   

On any scale of satisfaction. And every point   

A thorn in the side of the god who loves you.   

You don’t want that, a large-souled man like you

Who tries to withhold from your wife the day’s disappointments   

So she can save her empathy for the children.   

And would you want this god to compare your wife   

With the woman you were destined to meet on the other campus?   

It hurts you to think of him ranking the conversation   

You’d have enjoyed over there higher in insight   

Than the conversation you’re used to.

And think how this loving god would feel   

Knowing that the man next in line for your wife   

Would have pleased her more than you ever will   

Even on your best days, when you really try.   

Can you sleep at night believing a god like that

Is pacing his cloudy bedroom, harassed by alternatives   

You’re spared by ignorance? The difference between what is

And what could have been will remain alive for him   

Even after you cease existing, after you catch a chill   

Running out in the snow for the morning paper,

Losing eleven years that the god who loves you   

Will feel compelled to imagine scene by scene   

Unless you come to the rescue by imagining him   

No wiser than you are, no god at all, only a friend   

No closer than the actual friend you made at college,

The one you haven’t written in months. Sit down tonight   

And write him about the life you can talk about   

With a claim to authority, the life you’ve witnessed,   

Which for all you know is the life you’ve chosen.

Crows With Lethargic Dispositions

• >> Deferred (double) bleggalgaze, deferred (triple) tabletgaze, deferred (quadruple) pengaze
• Orientalism, then and now
• Read this and remember Democrats never campaign on Judiciary and conservatives doing this shit though of course they know and ask yourself why
• Magnetized by despair
• My congressperson - since I'm sloppy and tolerate no greys but more sloppy when I hate motherfucking professional Democrats and Raskin has been one sometimes, some credit here where due (though I'm tempted to call FAKE!)
• Deep Space Nine, Season Four, Episode Nine, first of the Bashir, Julian Bashir, episodes, saved by Sisco as Drax for Drax's name alone
• Hejinian! Just bought
• Made a change (see if you see) at PoJ (plus new post)
• Comparative Poetry
• Occurred to me yesterday I haven't listened to Polly Jean in forever, the fuck is wrong with me

LAST ON EARTH

Mary Ruefle

It is said that many have been cured of madness by drinking

of the spring in the orchard of this convent, but I

doubt it, for it is a very pleasant place and a surfeit

of pleasantries often leads directly to madness.

I do not have much experience of madness (once

a sister ran naked down the hall) but I have tasted

the water and it is clear and fresh, there is nothing

unpleasant about it. The Abbess said of a certain man

he is a drink of water—meaning he was a bore—

but I want to meet that man, he would be as welcome

in my life as Jesus in the orchard here, though the fat

old Abbess might shoo him away.  I would be so glad

to have him drink, to serve him with a round of little glasses

on a painted tray, like the ‘cocktail parties’

in the secular world, and I the hostess, turning her cheek

to be kissed in the fray. I would wear white clothes and

my headdress, and he might carry a scythe and cut

the morning glories, or simply sit and sun his nose.

But they have taken my Lord away, lodged Him in the earth

somewhere, call Him leaves, vines, breeze, bird.

It cannot be true. Looking for Him in these things

condemns us to a lifetime of imbecile activity.

He has a face, arms, legs, a navel. He is a man,

for He is everything I am not. How can it be

otherwise? Before I leave the spring, I lean

over it and weep. I spit upon the flowers. I stumble

up the hill. We are somewhere below the Tserna Gota—

meaning the Black Mountain—and when I reach the top

I count the villages—there are two—where we

are the last on earth to think of Him as having a head.

Here, too, is the source of the spring, and crows

with lethargic dispositions circle and circle the spot.