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November 07, 2009

Once I Peeked Through Your Mail Slot and Caught a Glimpse of Your Quiet Individual Self-formed Taste

Fleabusminus

I still think it a significant difference that when people like me on the American Left protest a war we believe immoral we hold up horrific photographs of maimed and dead children bombed by our country in that current war, and when people on the American Right protest a health care bill meant to make life marginally better for America's worst off, they hold up images of Dachau.

Useful idiots and yadda. Basing a moral roobrix on being a smarter-than-pigstoopid idiot is as vital a vector in affecting change in late-capital America as winning that senior year Homecoming football game X-decades ago.

*

Fleabusminus

*
YOU SMELL OF DIVES WHERE A PRICK LIKE YOU IS HATED

Cal Bedient

Once I peeked through your mail slot and caught a glimpse
of your quiet individual self-formed taste, the thousand pegs and
    pins

I must have wanted you dead to see you like that.

You should always speak the little fires are in you.
I am not diseased with the remark. Love cares to see the blackened
    tongues.

You twitch with a gathering head stir. Yes, free the little speeds are in
    you.
You're a real person when you go crazy like that.

Their felt legs rolled up for carrying, your people stare from your
    pockets.
Stump round and round the world with them, they are your darlings,

they are not sparrows, they are not sparrows running like rats on the
    cloud sleeves.
Open your works-in-progress to them: let them choose their
    mausoleum.

The horses I could eat, if I still hungered for you.
Backcountry beauties farting lush grass.

*

Another one of dozens of my five favorite songs ever:

Posted at 08:01 AM in aargocalyptic, Ask Fleabus, Books, Current Affairs, Daggregator, Mocomofo, Music, My Complicity, obamapology, obamapostasy, Poem, Poke, Shoot Me Now, We Are the Enemy | | Comments (5) | TrackBack (0)

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November 05, 2009

The Colorado Looks Up in Awe at the Grand Canyon It Has Made

*

Cedarlane
Medcenter
  • The whale that wouldn't die.
  • Intention and poetry.
  • UPDATE! Sometime in the past month I wrote that poetry is ahead of fiction re: these days, but twenty-five years? And good question asked there too.
  • Serendipity: looking for an online version of the Seidel poem below (to cut and paste rather than need type - and I had to type it) I find an old review of Seidel written by Cal Bedient, whose latest I've been yodeling about the past few weeks.

Bedient

*

POL POT

Frederick Seidel

Dawn. Leni Riefenstahl
And her cameras slowly inflate the immense Nuremberg Rally.
The Colorado looks up in awe at the Grand Canyon
It has made. Hitler.

European clouds. 1934. Empty
Thought-balloons high above Lascaux
Without a thought inside. The Führer
Is ice that's fire, physically small.

They all were. Stalin.
Trotsky's little glasses
Disappear behind a cloud
From which he won't emerge alive.

The small plane carrying
The Grail to Nuremberg got Wagnerian clouds
To fly through, enormous, enormous. Mine eyes have seen
    the glory, it
Taxis to a stop. The cabin door swings open.

Leni schussed from motion pictures
To still photography after the war. From the Aryan ideal, climbed out
In Africa to shoot the wild shy people of Kau,
Small heads, tall, the most beautiful animals in the world.

Artistically mounted them into ideal
Riefenstahl. Riefenstahl! Riefenstahl! Riefenstahl! Really,
From blonds in black-and-white to blacks in color.
Now Pol Pot came to power.

Now in London Sylvia Plath
Nailed one foot to the floor;
And with the other walked
And walked and walked through the terrible blood.

*

Posted at 08:29 AM in aargocalyptic, Books, Current Affairs, Daggregator, Mocomofo, Music, My Complicity, obamapology, obamapostasy, Poem, Poke, Project Goad, Shoot Me Now, We Are the Enemy | | Comments (3) | TrackBack (0)

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November 03, 2009

I'm Raising My Child to Know that the Cobras that Shiver in the Sky at Night Are Mistakes and Not Responsible for Us

Fleabusnov1

When I was sixteen and a first semester junior in Aviday Ampsellesay's English class at Gaithersburg High School, it was two years out from Nixon's resignation and one year out from the fall of Saigon and Moscow was on the march and Jimmy Carter had just been kinged. Holyfuck, the number one song in America was Rod Stewart's fucking Tonight's the Night: how's that for perspective on toxic futures.

I had a blast my junior year in high school, couldn't give a shit about shit as long as Rod Goddamn Stewart wasn't on the stereo. I've survived all End Times since to bring you my daily End Times predictions.

I teach my sixteen year old too little cynicism, too little selfishness, too little self-interest, I teach her nothing beyond what she concludes herself about the nature and motives of others, I teach her to be nicer, more understanding and forgiving, to be Kinder than me.

Despite me, it's working. All Fleabus photos by Planet.

*
Work2

UPDATE! Soehn "resigns". Post later. Or not.
Here's DCU Curmudgeon. Here's Fullback.

  • Excellent HATING! on Little Danny Helmetball: "He looks like a cross between Mitt Romney and a male nurse, with a spray-helmeted cube of black mannequin hair atop the pinched, entitled face of a guy [complaining to] a Howard Johnson's waitress about his curly fries not being curly enough."
  • Berbatov is.... The Continental.
  • Barra Barra.
  • Worst sports kits!
  • Vote for the Worst Uniform Ever!
  • Work:
Healy
  • Who would purposely distance themselves from the fiction he's reading? ME! who opened up the daily random Moby Dick to a horrifically brutal (and beautifully written) scene of whales in agony, so I've called a time out on both daily random readings much less front to back for now, which isn't the distance meant at the link. Which is why I need read the novel again.
  • Another review of the new Pamuk, which I will be reading, just when I'm not sure - I'm in Mexico City in 1976 chasing visceral realists right now.
  • I'm not sure why the New York Review of Books feels a need to review each and every new William Trevor novel, nor why each review of each new William Trevor isn't required to use the JCO/Updike required word "prolific." (sub rqrd)
  • Andrew addresses my Lessing problem.
  • Oofdah: a takedown of Ashbery.
  • New Ashbery.
  • Remembering Conrad Aiken, whose poetry one girlfriend adored and one mentor despised.
  • Wait until Ilse and Sasha see who's number one.
  • Above three links courtesy Silliman's always generous blog.
  • I'm not sure why there's a need for a new "selected" Wallace Stevens. (sub rqrd)
  • Not why I'm not, but the point is to make you.
  • Work
Work

*

SONG OF AMERICA

Rob Cook

I'm raising my child to become the end of rotting,
        and to expose the lushness of the cemetery moth.
I'm raising my child to know the difference between the two sunsets:
        one purple with thermonuclear iodine,
        the other the charred insides of rain.
I'm raising my child to find the stones his brothers fed each other.
I'm raising my child to fall behind the apricot blossoms
        and to trust only others who've fallen behind.
I'm raising my child to listen: there is so much noise
        only silence will be remembered.
I'm raising my child to fill in the spaces between wars
        and the spaces between people
        where everything grows even after the last space is gone.
I'm raising my child to bring into the world books that suffer
        with words detention-kids make over and over.
I'm raising my child to follow the scatter of flesh across the sky,
        birds and their wingprint trails to Alaska.
I'm raising my child to predict the sicknesses left of summer
        by the number of shadows he sweats.
I'm raising my child to plant pennies where he'll find rest
        and good fingerpaint for one night.
I'm raising my child to chop down the televisions of peasants
        and their machine that picks thunderstorms from a leaf.
I'm raising my child to write a treaty for his own smells,
        the ones that hurt the self and the ones that hurt others,
        and a treaty for the poison sumac whose only emotion is hunger.
I'm raising my child to dress like a long line of near-humans
        if he wants to be recognized
        and to show kindness to the roadkill that sneaks into his bed.
I'm raising my child to know which part of a hamburger is still afraid.
I'm raising my child to be captain of the abandoned mail trucks
        and to lead the grasses across the Midwestern sleep.
I'm raising my child to leave New York.
I'm raising my child to add letters and numbers to his name
        and chameleons and hellbenders behind his name.
I'm raising my child to drown and to drop dead and to carry buildings on his back.
I'm raising my child to listen to his face breaking when it's cold.
I'm raising my child to seduce only photographs of women.
I'm raising my child to know that the cobras that shiver
        in the sky at night are mistakes and not responsible for us.
I'm raising my child to leave bread for the voices that come after dark.
I'm raising my child to keep his eyes closed.
I'm raising my child to tell the truth by having no sound at all.

*

So what I posted this before?

Posted at 08:14 AM in aargocalyptic, Ask Fleabus, Books, Current Affairs, Daggregator, DCU/Soccer, DCU10, Mocomofo, Music, My Complicity, obamapology, obamapostasy, Poem, Project Goad, Shoot Me Now, We Are the Enemy | | Comments (4) | TrackBack (0)

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October 28, 2009

This Was Before The Internet Made These Sad and Surreptitious Purchases Unnecessary

Fleabusoct23

Welcome to 2025's premise is the end of American economic and military pre-eminence has long been predicted by America's staunchest and most professional hawks but wasn't supposed to occur for another fifteen years.

I can't stop thinking about the major fuckwit at the deli, not my not confronting him, in imagining what he'd say if I had. Saaay, you're right, I do advocate for a status quo that's brought me fame and fortune and a life style you'd swap with me in a nanosecond, you fucking peasant, I should stop and re-examine my conscience.

The people in charge - not the fuckwits but the fuckwads - know the clock is ticking, and the goal isn't saving America, it's wringing the most out of America before America's worth shit, and they know the deadline's rushing forward exponentially faster than even the fuckwadyish of fuckwads presumed. As for the fuckwits, the fuckwads throw them coin and access and stroke the fuckwits' insecure chinlessness in exchange for beneficial propaganda.

I admit, turning fifty has been more reverberative than all the other big tens combined and multiplied by X. When I turned forty, Planet was six, when I turned thirty, I'd only been married two years, when I turned twenty I was having too much fun, and at none of these milestones did I stop to examine my assumptions that (a) I wasn't going to die and (b) my belief in progress is roobish, a belief that a majority of humans would come to a tacit understanding that cooperation trumps coercion through an increasingly integrated world that made cooperation, rather than coercion, the self-interested choice.

What a fucking roob. Nobody shares more than they have to, and everything's negotiation. Here's truth: black-and-white TV shows, black-and-white movies, black-and-white news footage, KABONG! my pitchfork. The reason I'm sure I'm a weathervane: I came of awareness right when the world toggled from black-and-white to color for their daily spectacle.

I just turned fifty, I can see the future, in black-and-white footage, narrated by Laurence Olivier.

What a fucking roob, polishing my cranky old bastard's apocalyptic prophecies, forgetting again that humans are too resiliently shitty to properly exterminate themselves.

*

*

Clean, Clean, Clean

Linh Dinh

Belonging to the lower class, you’re expected
To cater to the upper class’ lower bodily functions,
Not to engage their minds but to wipe their asses,
Kiss their cunts on demand, suck cocks for tips,
Unless, of course, you’re an artist, in which case,
You’re an aristocrat of the servant class, to quote
That grand maestro among slaves, Jasper Johns.

I used to clean apartments and houses.
Showing up for a new job, I was greeted
By the mistress, “I have the most respect
For new immigrants. You work so hard!”
Down low, you’ll get a disproportionate
Low down on all things funky and nasty,
Nothing unusual, really, just shit and stuff.
I cleaned toilets and fridges, folded panties,
Got on all fours, dipped into the suspicious.
A young woman confided, “I moved to Philly
Because California women were so beautiful.”
She was usually home when I came. The spine
Of her soft porn book turned to the wall. They all
Had some smut in the house. This was before
The Internet made these sad and surreptitious
Purchases unnecessary. I found a teen-aged
Madonna in a closet, so I knelt and sighed.

A fat one lived alone, but once she said, “Sorry,
The house is so messy today. I had company
Last night,” and her face brightened angelically.

*

MMJ

Posted at 08:22 AM in aargocalyptic, Ask Fleabus, Autoblogography, Books, Current Affairs, Daggregator, DCU/Soccer, Mocomofo, Music, My Complicity, obamapology, obamapostasy, Poem, Poke, Project Goad, Shoot Me Now, We Are the Enemy | | Comments (3) | TrackBack (0)

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October 26, 2009

To Hope They're Not as Stranded in What They Are as the Blue Flowers in the Yard at the Corner Which Seem to Be Shouting Only One Name

Fleabus + Dandelion

So I was getting a sandwich at Wagshals Saturday, and standing next to me waiting for his sandwich was a major Villager fuckwit, holding a phone to his head with his left hand while scrolling a blackberry with his right.

Apparently I was staring contemptously, imagining what I should say - Are you really a fuckwit or just play one for pay, and could you explain the moral distinction? Do you believe what you say or are you just a fucking monkey reciting your lines, and do you believe they are one and the same? I realize the mortgages on the mansion in Foxhall and the multiple vacation homes need paying, but how do you sleep? - when he turned away from me with annoyance, saying into his cell, I can't decide between the black Mercedes E-Class and the silver Lexus ISF.

I see these fuckwits all the time and never say a word. Despite this bleg's fucking language, I'm civil and polite in society, believe in respecting people's personal space: I daydream (and bleg) my insults.

And what would it serve but to confirm the justness of societal order in the Villagers' fuckwit minds to be challenged to defend their morality by a fucking peasant in a delicatessen? I'm going to change their minds? Long live the revolution.

*

*

INFIDEL

Carl Dennis

If I chew these sesame seed slowly,
As the book advises, and do my rhythmic breathing,
I may end up the year comparing myself to Buddha,
Thinking of myself as his companion.

No more wasting my energy on my will,
The will afraid if it ever stopped wanting
I'd disappear. Head forward,
Shoulders stopped under its sack of ambitions,
It butts its way through the crowd.
It halts in clearings to count its losses.

Now I can turn to meditation and vision
If I chew theses sesame seeds slowly,
Walking behind myself at a saving distance,
Glancing around at a world not seen before.

Soon I'll be free to play, to leave my projects behind
And wonder what it's like to be a stone,
Or a tree, or the dog asleep by the lawn chair,
Or the woman in the chair, gray-haired and frail,
Knitting a sweater for her daughter's baby.

To be them, and then to leave them.
To hope they're not as stranded in what they are
As the blue flowers in the yard at the corner
Which seem to be shouting only one name,
Blue Flower, Blue Flower.

Just a mouthful of sesame seeds and salt
To neutralize the acidity of the blood
And maybe in a week or two the fretful yin child
Will be a contemplative, joyful yang.

And if I can change, my friends can follow
If they're willing to be more flexible
And don't insist, as they have till now,
On their own vivid, unchastened perspectives.

Strange to love those who resist me,
Who block the sidewalk when I go exploring
And won't give ground, who force me
To step aside with my ears ringing,
My eyes watering, and move on

Under the awnings that flap their colors
As awnings do, under lindens
Shaking their leaves as lindens will
When they want to refresh themselves
In gusts from the mountains, gusts from the sea.

*

In response to my begging for a Queequeg and Starbuck to go die in a whale hunt with me, Ilse wrote "Hrm. Would I be getting paid to read _The Dick?_ Otherwise, why bother? I already know I like penises. (Yes, I'm an English teacher. So?):

Thanks, Frederick! for the (I don't flatter myself it was intentional) serendipity!

Posted at 01:33 PM in aargocalyptic, Ask Fleabus, Autoblogography, Books, Current Affairs, Daggregator, DCU/Soccer, Mocomofo, Music, My Complicity, obamapology, obamapostasy, Poem, Poke, Project Goad, Shoot Me Now, We Are the Enemy | | Comments (11) | TrackBack (0)

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October 23, 2009

And Your Name, Curled Flame, Licks the Matchbook of the Cause, Like a Voice Whose Rome Pisses through Every Little Animal.

Fleabusdec3

Yapped Thursday with good blegfriend Richard, happy funny bleggy stuff to start, then on to novels like we always do.

I got past halfway, maybe 4/7ths the way through Powers' Generosity, and megamehfulness. I just don't give a damn, about the plot, the characters, the authorial voice, the bioethical quandary Powers' poses this time. I admit in email the meh may be as much my fault as Powers, and I mean that to a point, but, c'mon, I don't roll that way: it has to be because the novel sucks. (What's interesting is my favorite Powers' novel is one of Richard's least, and visa versa, but that's another post. Or not.)

I'm rereading Beyond Black, partly and certainly because Richard told me he'd give it a try after all my squawking about it, but primarily because once I started to think about rereading it, I had no way to stop thinking about rereading it except to reread it.

Then there was that MOCO post, the one I'd rewritten countless times in the moleskin, that I needed to post just to be rid of it. Then there was the Redskin post, which I had to post just to be rid of it.

Holy fuck, you know what I'm going to reread next because it's been ten years and I can't stop thinking about rereading it?

1023090802

Consider the subtleness of the sea; how its most dreaded creatures glide under the water, unapparent for the most part, and treacherously hidden beneath the loveliest tints of azure. Consider also the devilish brilliance and beauty of many of its most remorseless tribes, as the dainty embellished shape of many species of sharks. Consider, once more, the universal cannibalism of the sea; all whose creatures prey upon each other, carrying on eternal war since the world began.

GAH! Anyone want to join me?

Someone's writing the novel that needs writing right row about right now (poetry is ahead of fiction right now about right now), and I privilege this right now as the most important right now since the last and until the next, and though it bores with my self-servingness to hear me say it again, I am a weathervane, and as people discover that in their digital powerlessness they have never been freer to contribute to the spectacle, there's never been a greater wave of WTFness now that voyeurism is peak and product can't keep up.

Which is to say I'm officially monitoring this bleg's increasing levels of possibly self-destroying WTFness. I'm trying to stop monitoring this bleg's levels of self-destroying WTFness.

*

*

A THREE-RAVEN FIELD TALKING DIRTY APPLE BLOSSOMS

Cal Bedient

And your name, Blue, crouches like a wrestler's head,

Or a voice whose window dismembers the beetle moon.

And your name, Insatiable, stokes a sunflower bonfire

With a voice whose sea is inside out at feeding time.

And your name, Chemical, has no sweet fold et cetera

Nor a voice whose cliffs are anybody's heart.

And your name, Leaves a Light on in the Void,

Clicks in the all-night stapler of your theater.

And your name, They Had Doubt, slews in a Cloud Magellan

With a voice whose Mary is two blues from origin.

And your name, Halfer, ignora la otra mitad,

Whose voice piles weapons in the pick-up beds of exile.

And your name, Curled Flame, licks the matchbook of the cause,

Like a voice whose Rome pisses through every little animal.

*

New Yo La Tengo?

Posted at 08:12 AM in aargocalyptic, Ask Fleabus, Autoblogography, Books, Current Affairs, Daggregator, Mocomofo, Music, My Complicity, obamapology, obamapostasy, Poem, Poke, Project Goad, Shoot Me Now, We Are the Enemy | | Comments (4) | TrackBack (0)

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October 21, 2009

Their Existence as an Awareness of Losing Their Sense of Existence

Fleabus13

I was driving last night and, confession, listening to the Redskin-owned local sports station, and I heard one of the co-hosts, a guy one year older than me who grew up five miles from me who now lives six miles from me and who broadcasts from a building three miles from me, emotionally and forcefully defend himself against a listener's accusations that he wasn't a "true fan" because of his abject and vitriolic and passionate disgust with the shittiness of the object of his faith's adoration.

(Confession: my first team love was the Washington Redskins. I remember Elric's parents driving us around the backroads of MOCO on Sunday afternoons in Elric's father's blue Pontiac convertible listening to Steve Gilmartin and Mel Campbell on WMAL, the only way to get live home games in the mid-to-late 1960s. Sonny Jurgensen and Chris Hanburger. That I'm delighting in the clusterfuck that is Little Danny Helmetball proves devotion can be dammed and redirected but never completely unbaptized.)

For all my bitchandmoan, I'm nowhere near abandoning Uonbiatmead, which doesn't boast an Peterangelostic Snydermonster to help me past my roobity (though Praayhnme is getting there), and my stoopidity as a negotiator - and everything is a negotiation - remains: I still always settle for a handjob called better-than-shittier.

Then bitchandmoaning and the defiant defense of bitchandmoaning, the highest, most privileged reward of the happily disappointed devout. Winning isn't the prize of faith.

*

Echoct091021

*

POORLY GROUNDED NATIONS

Keith Waldrop

And an inability to comprehend the
flow of time. We need only think of statements
by everybody. I cannot call my-
self myself. Up to this point, the dreamer
is dreaming, but now his dream
begins. Unities of recollection, separate
from one another. Thus is this present
world, there are different injuries.

I never hear them. The come
uninvited. Silver tissue. Garlands
between them. Any activity may produce
music. Aware of their existence as an
awareness of losing their sense of ex-
istence: vague, general, nameless, like
a nothing or the absolute. I am dead. I am
not alive, a music of exceeding shrillness.

May be pleasantly illustrated in the
following way. Light on the head. Felicitous,
contains some fabrication. I am
forced to shout out, trace failure to the stage
when plans are construed. I see a table
before me. I am reminded of another
table. I place table besides table. Separate
worlds. In what sense are we talking?

*

The original:

Posted at 10:45 AM in aargocalyptic, Ask Fleabus, Books, Current Affairs, Daggregator, DCU/Soccer, DCU09, Mocomofo, Music, My Complicity, obamapology, obamapostasy, Poem, Poke, Project Goad, Shoot Me Now, We Are the Enemy | | Comments (3) | TrackBack (0)

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October 16, 2009

A Few Are Fueled by Hate: Their Flight, A Slow and Patient Bullet.

Flbs9

What this guy writes reads like what I've been saying forever until recently, though he does research and I don't because I'm The Abbreviationist, which is why I need bleg to bitch. Still, for umpteen decades I did believe the cantilever of Less-Shittiness was the faith that who we vote for would vote as our proxy but don't because they can't, not because they don't want to.

I've friends who argue I obamabitchandmoan unfairly, begrudge him everything, credit him nothing, when there are (and there are) some somethings he's done that Cheneybans surely wouldn't. (UPDATE! Alright, we'll see how much true credit to assign later, but credit Obama for saying this.)

These friends say I obamabitchandmoan because Obama won't, on a special broadcast from the Oval Office, call Dick Cheney an amoral shitsmear, his wars of choice both illegal and immoral, and then add as an aside that anyone who believes a single turdly word out of Fatfuck Limbaugh or Fuckface Hannity is as stoopid as an inbred pick-up truck rear-bumper with a Stars-and-Bars decal.

Fucking-A. My friends are right, not about Obama, about me, who's right, because until Obama confronts and goads the Crackerstani opposition, I'm assuming it's because he doesn't want to, not because he's too stoopid or too cowardly to.

Those are the three choices, and he's not shy about goading me. Call the obamawaambulance.

*

*

1124 INTO WICHITA

Albert Goldbarth

Some of us are heading into funerals, and some of us are heading
just as evidently into the morass and molasses of love.
(Each has its detectable aura.) Some of us are money. Some
are flutes. A few are moneymoneymoney. Some, trombones.
I think that one or two are delivering an apology
on an invisible silver wafer - if it's not too late. Another
is repeating to herself the script of a wonderful proposal,
a ring-tailed zinger of a proposal - if it's not too early.
Some are asleep: the adrenaline shift in their bodies
has just punched out for the day. A few are fueled
by hate: their flight, a slow and patient bullet.
Someone is lactating: there's a dark rose over the light pink
silk of her blouse. We're here. We're so high, we
don't even own a molecule of shadow. Down there, now

too small to see, a tree - a willow, a crazy philharmonic maestro
of a tree - is conducting the wind: those owl pellets flying
all around in the air could be notes. And somewhere else
a tarp that's half-undone on top of a farmer's rick is repeatedly
lifting and dropping, all day, like a woman's hand on her breast
in a worried self-diagnosis. Down there, everything keeps on
    happening.
Gusto. Failure. Slithering boas of light dry snow. And
sudden wedges of sun driven into the darkness. Everything -
waiting for us. Some of us want it, some of us don't,
but down there somewhere every one of us has a destination.
There's a case lined like a casket, for the flute: there's a purse
as pink inside as a vulva, for the money. All of us
know this. All of us now in a changed awareness.
All of heading down in a locked and upright position.

*

Born forty-nine years ago today:

Posted at 12:47 PM in aargocalyptic, Ask Fleabus, Books, Current Affairs, Daggregator, Mocomofo, Music, My Complicity, obamapology, obamapostasy, Poem, Project Goad, Shoot Me Now, We Are the Enemy | | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

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October 13, 2009

It Is a Spar in a Far Mine

Fleabus2 010

I suggest that HOLYFUCKINGFUCK! isn't tomorrow, that my placing posts about Planet's college visits next to posts proclaiming each day's tomorrow is HOLYFUCKINGFUCK! based on each day's yesterday's OMFG! is not only logically incoherent (though a proven if overplayed gambit to maintain if not increase pings), it demonstrates a level of calculated dishonesty by all of us digitally competing to be the bestest diagnostician of HOLYFUCKINGFUCK! ever. Asses.

This past Friday I sent in my deposits for next year's United full-season plan. I'll be back with another HOLYFUCKINGFUCK! post by Thursday at the latest. Click Fleabus, yo.

88px-MD_Route_586.svg
UPDATE!

  • One of the new songs is called Silver Trembling Hands, which of course makes me think of Trembling Blue Stars.

88px-MD_Route_586.svg

democrac

D.A. Powell

does god discriminate, slashing some flags, amendments

ever farther about the chapels, pale heaven expires

morter the mosque means build not bomb - the moral center gives

only an honest fellow [please provide] might renounce

christ, this machinery of helmets, prosthetic limbs, human skin

refusing, louder than the drone above the disputed zones

all ages are difficult ages: flight, the bits of metal raining down

clarity never arrives, it is a spar in a far mine, it costs us dearly

88px-MD_Route_586.svg

Another one of dozens of my five favorites songs ever:

Know what? Theme Song October 2009

Posted at 08:06 AM in aargocalyptic, Ask Fleabus, Autoblogography, Books, Current Affairs, Daggregator, DCU/Soccer, Mocomofo, Music, My Complicity, obamapology, obamapostasy, Poem, Poke, Project Goad, Shoot Me Now, Theme Songs, We Are the Enemy | | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

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October 11, 2009

If She Knew the Prognosis She Would Begin to Feel Alone, Too

Fleabus10

Been forty-eight fucking hours since my last fix of obamacrank and I'm really starting to feel sick man, I need me a fucking spectacle and I fucking need it now.

Don't tell me to take fucking methamilitantdysphoriadone.

*

180px-Melakon

  • Melakon?
  • UPDATE! Elric goes to hockey night in Toronto, in post insults Baltimore AND Pittsburgh. (Elric should call his parents so they stop bugging me he doesn't call.)
  • Well, while this is good, it renders Wednesday at RFK relatively meaningless to USMNT (I suppose you could make the argument that winning the hexagonal outright might mean a higher seed and better draw at WC10, like FIFA won't seed Mexico higher regardless).
  • UPDATE! This could be the a fun week in DC.
  • New translation of Tin Drum, which I've tried three times over the years, never making it past page 50.
  • Greenblatt reviews Mantel's Wolf Hall (and meditates on what makes a historical novel): Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall is a startling achievement, a brilliant historical novel focused on the rise to power of a figure exceedingly unlikely, on the face of things, to arouse any sympathy at all. To be sure, one could imagine worse: we are not being invited to enter the life of, say, Stalin's sinister henchman Lavrenti Beria. But Thomas Cromwell, the focus of Mantel's loving attention for almost six hundred pages, is not that distant from the bureaucratic architect of the Great Purge.
  • UPDATE! Sharp short story.
  • As a gimmick for their pledge drive, KEXP asked listeners to vote on different subjects - best song, best album, etc. Find the lists here, of which I'll only say this: all's fine, but if I hear Jeff Buckley's - or anyone's -version of "Hallelujah" one more fucking time, I'm fucking gonna scream. (Fucking Fleet Foxes too.)
  • UPDATE! Darkblack's Sunday Overnight.
  • Eternal Memory.
  • HEY! Feelies song!

*

THE DIAGNOSIS

James Tate

Lincoln was sixty years old when the doctor told him he only had forty more years to live. He didn't tell his wife, with whom he confided everything, or any of his friends, because this new revelation made him feel all alone in a way he had never experienced before. He and Rachel had been inseparable for as long as he could remember and he thought that if she knew the prognosis she would begin to feel alone, too. But Rachel could see the change in him and within a couple of days she figured out what it meant. "You're dying," she said, "aren't you?" "Yes, I'm dying," Lincoln said, "I only have forty years." "I feel you drifting away from me already," she said. "It's the drifting that kills you," Lincoln whispered.

*

Posted at 09:12 AM in aargocalyptic, Ask Fleabus, Books, Current Affairs, Daggregator, DCU/Soccer, Music, My Complicity, obamapology, obamapostasy, Poke, Project Goad, We Are the Enemy | | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

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