King Shit & The Golden Boys. I surrender, I don't know why it took till now, but Guided by Voices (all Pollard projects) is now officially the third permanent member of my Sillyass Desert Island Five, leaving only two rotating spots. Be in your head:
- Cheyenne.
- Unreasonable Liberals.
- Things I will keep.
- Kleptocracy and you.
- This shitty blog's Theme Song 3.
- The coming age of Neocla.
- My kind of soldier.
- Contra-Naomi Wolf, redux.....
- Echos Myron.
- Also, motherfucking crackers.
- I am an scientist.
- Misanthropy's holiday.
- I am a tree.
- Banana Republic.
- Bright paper werewolves.
- Rhetorical question.
- Dodging invisible rays.
- Miller time.
- How's my drinking?
- The attempt to write.
- Big school.
- Silliman's always astonishingly generous lit-links.
- Hey Aardvark.
- Under the influence of ideals.
- Closer you are.
- On classic rock.
DREAM IN WHICH I MEET MYSELF
Lynn Emanuel
Even the butter's a block of sleazy light. I see that first,
as though I am a dreary guest come to a dreary supper.
On her table, its scrubbed deal trim and lonely as a cot,
is food for one, and everything we've ever hated: a plate of pallid
grays and whites is succotash and chops are those dark shapes glaring up at us.
Are you going to eat this? I want to ask; she's at the stove dishing up,
wearing that apron black and stiff as burned bacon, reserved for maids and waitresses.
The dream tells us: She is still a servant. Even here.
So she has to clean our plate. It's horrible to watch.
She pokes the bits of stuff into her mouth. The roll's glued shut like a little box
with all that sticky butter. Is this all living gets you? The room, a gun stuck in your back?
Don't move, It says. She's at the bureau lining up bobby pins.
Worried and fed up I wander to the window
with its strict bang of blind. My eyes fidget and scratch.
And then I see myself: I am this dream's dog. I want out.