Gladden Me With Sinfulness

Adding, one week ago today I was dancing, you were dancing, with obamagasmic bwaha, one fucking week ago (feels now 27 years, yes?).

Adding, every print news organization, every cable media organization, no matter how halved and quartered and vacuumed I feel, they still have bullshit to shovel to people jonesing to consume bullshit.

Opostasy will suck, but not as much as eight years of Obamahologram Hal-ling you daily to buy a fucking t-shirt. Jeebusfuck, it'll be like living with that creepy doctor on Star Trek: Seven's Tits.

Still, until Obama does something substantial much less something substantially shitty, do like me and self-righteously pretend to not pay attention, almost convincing myself I've convinced myself I'm not paying attention while thinking about Anthony Hecht's

SESTINA d'INVERNO

Here in this bleak city of Rochester
where there are twenty-seven words for "snow,"
Not all of them polite, the wayward mind
Basks in some Yucatan of its own making,
Some coppery, sleek lagoon, or cinnamon island
Alive with lemon tints and burnished natives,

And O that we were there. But here the natives
Of this grey, sunless city of Rochester
Have sown whole mines of salt about their land
(Bare ruined Carthage that it is) while snow
Comes down as if The Flood were in the making.
Yet on that ocean Marvell called the mind

An ark sets forth which is itself the mind,
Bound for some pungent green, some shore whose natives
Blend coriander, cayenne, mint in making
Roasts that would gladden the Earl of Rochester
With sinfulness, and melt a polar snow.
It might be well to remember that an island

Was blessed heaven once, more than an island,
The grand, utopian dream of a noble mind.
In that kind climate the mere thought of snow
Was but a wedding cake; the youthful natives,
Unable to conceive of Rochester,
Made love, and were acrobatic in the making.

Dream as we may, there is far more to making
Do than some wistful reverie of an island,
Especially now when hope lies with the Rochester
Gas and Electric Co., which doesn't mind
Such profitable weather, while the natives
Sink, like Pompeians, under a world of snow.

The one thing indisputable here is snow,
The single verity of heaven's making,
Deeply indifferent to the dreams of the natives,
And the torn hoarding-posters of some island.
Under our igloo skies the frozen mind
Holds to one truth: it is grey, and called Rochester.

No island fantasy survives Rochester,
Where to the natives destiny is snow
That is neither to our mind nor of our making.

like I do every Fall that first time each Fall when, outside in early dark with wind ripping through leafless trees, cold reminds me it can kill me, which is only one reason I post this poem every Fall.

Better awe. Fake it while you can.

*

• American Conservatism: An Autopsy.
• So, where does Obama go from here?
• Six questions.
• This is what I said yesterday about Limbaugh.
• More on Crackerstanis rearming.
• Purple Line, fwrtz.
• Move Cider Barrel?

 

That Germantown long dead. (h/t Gaithersblog)

• Ian McEwan, the world's most overrated novelist, please STFU.
• That link found in TEV's lit links.
• New lit aggregator.
• I am not alone.
• Novel 2.0.

UPDATES!

• McCain: The Fall.
  
• A limited (and correct) defense of Palin.
• Lomborg excoriated.
• Who devour widows' houses?
• American Fascists.
• How Humanitarianism Went to War.
• All the propaganda that's fit to print.
• Worse pop song ever?

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Better awe: