Irwin played that yesterday. To me, the fascinating aspect of Obama's announcement yesterday isn't so much why-now as watching me and everyone else feed the news through our individual wringers and make the cynical pasta we each love best even if some of us eat it with less satisfaction than before or, if fortunate, don't eat it at all any more.
- Much more, of course, but busy last night, leaving shortly to drive to Ohio to pick up Planet, more tomorrow or not. Just a few links and poem and songs.
- It's interesting how during shitstorms - and I've asked other puny bloggers and they've agreed - is that traffic virtually stops in Punyville and spikes at blegolopolises like Atrios, a small but essential ingredient in our pasta-making.
- But yes, he's still motherfucking Obama.
- Real leadership.
- The wonder and trouble with death to the either/or.
- Historical gestures.
- Gay rites.
- Hope and hesitations.
- Hands up, peasant motherfuckers.
- Flat worlders.
from YOU
Ron Silliman
Hard dreams. The moment at which you recognize that your own death lies
in wait somewhere within your body. A lone ship defines the horizon. The
rain is not safe to drink.
In Grozny, in Bihac, the idea of history shudders with each new explosion.
The rose lies unattended, wild thorns at the edge of a mass grave. Between
classes, over strong coffee, young men argue the value of a pronoun.
When this you see, remember. Note in a bottle bobs in a cartoon sea. The
radio operator's name is Sparks.
Hand outlined in paint on a brick wall. Storm turns playground into a
swamp. Finally we spot the wood duck on the middle lake.
The dashboard of my care like the keyboard of a piano. Toy animals anywhere.
Sun swells in the morning sky.
Man with three pens clipped to the neck of his sweatshirt shuffles from one
table to the next, seeking distance from the cold January air out the coffee
house door, tall Styrofoam cup in one hand, Of Grammatology in the other.
Outside, a dog is tied to any empty bench, bike chained to the No Parking
sign.
