- Stolen - both the vid and the bleggalweariness app - from ZRM.
- Police and Occupy.
- The Villagers of Fuckface Hiatt's YFWP op-ed page dance on the grave of the Newtster once, twice, three times.
- Under the eye of the imperial panopticon.
- Why Afghans can't tie their shoes. Adding, no one seems to mention that American occupation of Afghanistan has as much to do with what country directly west of Afghanistan can be bombed from American air bases in Afghanistan as anything else.
- The American occupation of Okinawa.
- Jive talking.
- I finished this instead of writing today's bleg lede:
- Against JSTOR.
- Retail outlet.
- McCarthy, for those of you who do.
- Sebald, for those of you who do.
- The last (faxed) poem of Bukowski.
- Beckett, for those of you who do.
- The vault and arch of landscape.
- Hum.
- Absolutely horrifying and horrible news.
- Glass is 75 today.
CLOSING HOURS
Ann Lauterbach
This trace, if it exists, is alms for delusion.
An arch uncurls from the floor
scented with the scent of a tapestry, housed here.
I recall the hour but not its passage
unless dream captures and ties it to sleep:
a fat bellhop smiles, shows me to the tower
where I can watch the departure.
But some days settle so that nothing
crosses the horizon; stare as I will, no star
needles the air. Now I am left
on the outskirts of a forest hemmed in by wheat
where plump trees hide the image, its symmetry
shot up and blown across the ground like feathers.
The unicorn, the grail, blue and red wings
of kneeling musicians, these are embroidered
elsewhere. Perseverance was crowned.
Hope and Pity prayed for success.
How fast is this camera? Can it record a trace?
There was a voyage. Four mounted horses
strain against centuries.
To each is allotted: dust kicked up, smoke, plumage.
