2012/09/07

The Fucking Dog Barks at the Night, Mad at the Stars All His Life and Then Again




If there is no difference, said B, a friend of K's, at Thursday Night Pints, if there is no difference between the Democrats and Republicans on Police State policy or bankster policy, even if I know I am fed social issues to keep me troughed, isn't thwarting crackers a cynical x cynical reasonable position? I paraphrase, but I hear some version of the question in my head constantly. Yes I'm yelling at you but I'm yelling mostly at me. I quickly gave my third generation Ellis Island disillusionment Mr Ed O! Wilbur story, successive fathers leaving children a better world more left of the world they inherited, so successful was the less-shittyism of the Left once upon a time. I use that as justification for my apostasies and proof of my still deep rubity. L gave her confession, she's twenty years older than me, the ripples of apostasy that radiate past the younger to older that I used to talk about capsized her goat (yes goat) after mine but her capsizing hurt her more than mine me. Your uterus is a negotiable prop, L said to B. Three of the flat-screens were showing the convention. We stared as the Foofucking Fuckingfighters came on stage. Fine metaphors abound, said L, whose anger I envy, who will not need buy a ridiculously prized Scotch at TNPs until the second Thursday after POTUS 12.














TO THE QUARRY AND BACK

Katia Kapovich

White hail pelting the frozen bog,
I’m stuck in the first line of January,
following my host’s dog
on his walk through the stone century,
around the quarry, slices of marble and mud,
past a herd of miners exhaling smoke,
past a barn smelling of merde,
and back to where I’m stuck and broke.
The fucking dog barks at the night,
mad at the stars all his life and then again.
I rethink kicking him out,
but being cool, I let him in.