Where the Stars Have Swallowed Their Train Schedule

Regardless who's shittier, a Left-bat like me or a pig from the Right, our service is keeping the other from a triumphant American bat-Left or pig-Right.

Hah. We only thought we were fully-poked barking monkeys.

• I too wish I could enjoy this moment more. The most significant event in my life was my parents moving us from western Pennsylvania to MOCO when I was four. Growing up, going back to Fellsburg and Republic for holidays and a couple of weeks each summer and seeing the dead and dying coal and steel towns, then coming back to a vibrant and growing MOCO, gave me a sense of progress which I simply grew to accept as natural. I'm sorry for repeating myself, but it pisses me off to think that the world I'll leave Planet is far more likely to be worse and certainly will not be better than the world my parents left me.
• UPDATE! One step closer to the dream.
• Five jokes about Democratic pussiness includes: The entire United States Senate is flying on a plane when its engines start to fail. The plane starts falling through the sky. There are 100 senators on board, but only 41 parachutes. The Democrats say, “Let’s give all the parachutes to the Republicans—that way we can just sit on our fat asses and die while the plane crashes because we’re a bunch of self-hating pussies.”
• What the fuck has anything to do with Vietnam.
• The time to be a populist was a year ago.
• Thune 2012. Where are the fucking Democrats pointing out that every GOP economic position is Class Warfare on behalf of the elites? Rhetorical fucking question, that.
• One shrewd but empty move Obama could make is fire Tim Fucking Geithner.
• And other GOP Daddies still working the faucets.
• Of course.
• Too little too late.
• SCOTUS Unveils iNeda v2.0.
• Bitching at Ken Burns as ineffectual release.
• Your future Villager elites.
• The Guantanamo Suicides.
• Humans will kill everything in their pursuit for Utopia.
• Howard Zinn and the Myth of Good Wars. (h/t)
• How WaPo became Your Fucking Washington Post.
• Dudeism, The Faith that Abides.
• Best and Worse Jobs in US?
• Racism and Soccer.
• Eight ways to prepare your pet for war.
• Moscow's stray dogs.
• Reminds me of something I'd do.
  

• BRAC = My Future Hell.
• Kensington wants to wet its beak.
• Fobin Fucking Ricker. Please find his mailing address at the link and send him a letter impolitely asking him to fucking shut the fuck up and fucking die already, but please don't offer help him die: he's a litigious fuck.
• New Baithersgurgle High School?

• We should see if we could walk through one last time.
• MOCO Girl Gangs?
• Clarksburg!
• GOP government reopens pissers Dem governor closed.
• Hilltop Fighting Spirit!
• I don't care what they call it, I ain't going there.

• My once professor and still friend George has recommended only one book I didn't dig, Olivia Manning's Balkan Trilogy, just re-released as a NYRB classic, and since he badgers me about it - he thinks it's a masterpiece - and NYRB books are wonderfully designed and built and a joy to hold in your hands, OK, I'll try again.
• It's been twenty years at least since I read almost every Iris Murdoch novel, but if I was to recommend one it'd be The Sea, The Sea.
• Is it surprising that memoirs are flourishing in an age of reality shows?
• Deconstructive architecture.
• Lear, Madness, A Grandmother.
• Hemon in conversation.
• The unwritten second half of Karamazov?
• Remembering Kate McGarrigle.
• Here's where the obsessive part happened.
• Shearwater.
• Loud. On acid if possible.
• Today's Listening Assignment.
• New Beach House.

FUCK THE ASTRONAUTS

James Tate

  I

Eventually we must combine nightmares

an angel smoking a cigarette on the steps
of the last national bank, said to me.
I put her out with my thumb. I don’t need that

cheap talk I’ve got my own problems.

It was sad, exciting, and horrible.

It was exciting, horrible, and sad.

It was horrible, sad, and exciting.

It was inviting, mad, and deplorable.
It was adorable, glad, and enticing.

Eventually we must smoke a thumb

cheap talk I’ve got my own angel

on the steps of the problems the bank

said to me I don’t need that.

I will take this one window
with its sooty maps and scratches
so that my dreams will remember
one another and so that my eyes will not
become blinded by the new world.

   II

The flames don’t dance or slither.
They have painted the room green.

Beautiful and naked, the wives

are sleeping before the fire.
Now it is out. The men have

returned to the shacks,

slaved creatures from the forest

floor across their white

stationwagons. That just about
does it, says the other,
dumping her bucket
over her head. Well, I guess
we got everything, says one,
feeling around in the mud,

as if for a child.

Now they remember they want

that mud, who can’t remember

what they got up for.
They parcel it out: when

they are drunk enough

they go into town with

a bucket of mud, saying

we can slice it up into
windmills like a bloated cow.
Later, they paint the insides

of the shack black,

and sit sucking eggs all night,

they want something real, useful,

but there isn’t anything.

   III

I will engineer the sunrise
they have disassembled our shadows

our echoes are erased from the walls

your nipples are the skeletons of olives
your nipples are an oriental delight

your nipples blow away like cigarette papers

your nipples are the mouths of mutes

so I am not here any longer

skein of lightning

memory’s dark ink in your last smile
where the stars have swallowed their train schedule
where the stars have drowned in their dark petticoats
like a sock of hamburger

receiving the lightning

into his clitoris

red on red the prisoner

confesses his waltz

through the corkscrew lightning

nevermind the lightning

in your teeth let’s waltz

I am the hashish pinball machine

that rapes a piano.

New (sad) Eels!