Holyfuck, I've the first comprehensively vile mood I've had in months, so fuck it, I'll be damned if I'm not going to enjoy it.
- Bleggalgazing: There is another factor at play in the recent dearth of posting: the inherent difficulty of saying anything meaningful about a political world that has become almost totally hallucinatory. This is currently being exemplified by the debt-ceiling “crisis.” Every single element of the public presentation of this “crisis” is transparently, even brazenly false. It is obvious – even to many of our ever-somnolent Establishment commentators – that the situation is an entirely manufactured crisis designed solely to impose shock-doctrine “austerity” on the American system, thus completing its long, painful mutation into a neo-feudal oligarchy backed by a militarist police state.
- There is no lesser evilism.
- On what do we depend?
- World Shittiest Human tells crackers to sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up.
- Motherfucking christers. Here's the motherfucker's email address: WesScroggins
@MissouriState.edu. Don't actually write him, just have a pleasant thirty seconds daydreaming about it. - Yes, I realize Corporate plays me off this motherfucking christer to keep us from acknowledging what we agree upon and combining against Corporate, but what the fuck am I going to say to this fucker and his imaginary friend Fascist Jesus?
- Krugman's obamapostasy will never be ready.
- Blog Days of Summer or not, our stringtown in Blegsylvania be dead.
- Solar anus.
- Annihilating angel.
- Mouth end of the animal.
- Outrageous.
VAUCANSON
John Ashbery
It was snowing as he wrote.
In the gray room he felt relaxed and singular,
But no one, of course, ever trusts these moods.
There had to be understanding to it.
Why, though? That always happens anyway,
And who gets the credit for it? Not what is understood,
Presumably, and it diminishes us
In our getting to know it.
As trees come to know a storm
Until it passes and light falls anew
Unevenly, on all the muttering kinship:
Things with things, persons with objects,
Ideas with people or ideas.
It hurts, this wanting to give a dimension
To life when life is precisely that dimension.
We are creatures, therefore we walk and talk
And people come up to us, or listen
And then move away.
Music fills the spaces
Where figures are pulled to the edges,
And it can only say something.
Sinews are loosened then,
The mind begins to think good thoughts.
Ah, this sun must be good:
Doing a number, completing its trilogy.
Life must be back there. You hid it
So no one could find it
And now you can't remember where.
But if one were to invent being a child again
It might just come close enough to being a living relic
To save this thing, save it from embarrassment
By ringing down the curtain,
And for a few seconds no one would notice.
The ending would seem perfect.
No feelings to dismay,
No tragic sleep to wake from in a fit
Of passionate guilt, only the warm sunlight
That slides easily down shoulders
To the soft, melting heart.
