Play it now please while you're reading this post. There can never be a Theme Song May 2011 and this isn't June's theme song just this post's excellent theme song (though Holyfuck! finding my Yo La Tengo stash looking for something else, it's like love again).
Speaking of old bits, my canary synapses are chirping, my weathervane's frantically aiming at impending KABOOM! my Cassandra predictions are dependably predictable, my fool says some major man made shitstorm of some paradigm shifting - as in reinforcing then advancing Corporate's paradigmatic dream of reduced you, greater it (and Corporate's paradigmatic nightmare of reduced it, you peasant bastard!) - kabooms soon.
- On neoliberalism.
- Bears repeating.
- Selling out.
- On selling out.
- Bacevich screed.
- Motherfucking Democrats.
- Motherfucking Obama.
- The other Gitmo.
- Stockholm syndrome.
- William Pfaff makes a funny.
- Police state.
- No, fuck you.
- FMFM&L.
- Resource wars.
- Resource wars.
- Dana Milbank explains Villager protocol.
- We are so screwed.
- I watched Willy Bayne almost drown falling drunk out of a canoe on Tridelphia Reservoir thirty years ago or so.
- Poetry and dissent.
- Speaking of theme songs.
- Black flowers.
- Overlook.
- Autumn Sweater.
ON ANTI-BIOGRAPHY
Will Alexander
For me, biography is a lantern, burning in the midst of parenthetical opaqueness. In a sense, it is a ruse, a phantasmic meandering, brighter or dimmer, according to the ecletic happenstance of terror.
Me, I've been sired in anomaly, in an imagery of brewing grenadine riddles, a parallel poesis spawned from curious seismographic molten. I say curious, because the original stalking arc has disappeared into the wilderness of an a priori blizzard, which gives birth to a level, like a portal of fire conjoined with the lightning field of mystery. I call it the poetic guardian dove, the hieratic alien wing.
It is the non-local field, the non-particle acid, flowing into my cognitive iodine rays, into the vicious fires of my tarantella marshes. So I dance with vibration, with the solar arc spinning backward around the miraculous force of a double green horizon. Simultaneously, I escape the territorial, while remaining within the burning loops of my own momentary seizures, guarded by ferns, legs plowing land, the face and the mind guided by stars.
So, I am a martyr of drills, of spates of specific lingual flooding, casting at times, a mist or a mirage, like a caravan of yaks, transporting tungsten and water. Conversely, to give a graph of dates, to single out a bevy of personal social lesions, would invert me, would turn me around a diurnal bundle of glass, staggered, with a less than fiery temperature, partially nulling my sensitivity to falling phonemic peppers, to the inclination towards victory which burns in the dawn above heaven. For me, this is the green locale, the pleroma of eternal solar essence, glinting, full of fabulous maelstrom diamonds, an empowered hegira of drift, of claustrophobic rainbow spectrums which empty themselves, and return to themselves, like having an image go out and return to itself, so that it's power transmutes by the very energy of its looping; and I think of myself, the poet sending signals into mystery, and having them return to me with oneiric wings and spirals, so much so, that I forget my prosaic locale with its stultifying anchors, with its familial dotage and image reports, with its dates inscribed in trapezoidal faces. I am only concerned with simultaneity and height, with rays of monomial kindling, guiding the neo-cortex through ravens, into the ecstasy of x-rays and blackness.
