ThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcherThatcher. Everyone, scratch open wounds, assume your positions, each of ours predictable, self-reifying, Blegsylvanian tradition, human tradition. Popular complacency. How do you solve a problem like the Democrats? Motherfucking Democrats. What do you mean by class? Where bank regulators go to get rich. The gender or the sex? New Inquiry's Sunday Reading. No, it wasn't blogangst or blegennui or blugsuking that caused today's delayed bleggal emission, I was busy. I want to thank Maggie Thatcher for dying and providing today's gag. Prunella's latest playlist. Drummage, w/footnotes. Percival Everett's latest novel reviewed. I have Anne Carson's Autobiography of Red in my backpack, it's next, if works following that with be Red Doc>. The end of science fiction. Thatcher v Pop Culture. New Flaming Lips! I confess I either never knew or forgot about Slow Children, below via Zombie request!
EIGHT PRESIDENTS
Allan Peterson
October five. Seven years older in dog years and then your November
the day record snowfalls hit Randolph New Hampshire in forty-three
and I am thinking of something intimate and impossible to waste:
Brazil’s undiscovered caverns of amethyst endless smooth oval stones
along Washington’s moody Pacific chewing a continent. But I am wrong.
We pass St. Michael’s the cemetery that asks the public to mow and weed it
and perhaps draw larger conclusions about the already wasted and tidy up names
frayed at the edges by the ions that bind by age the chemical salt of time
that jostles stones over at their bases to remind us or alter their sentiments.
We read and read and each time nothing new has come up on their markers.
At home we hear the fishermen bring up their nets smack water to scare them.
By now the flounder’s secret pocket where its heart and everything separate
from meat and bone is cleaned and empty as a silk purse not a nickel left
down in the freezer. Nothing really shines but this: I have loved you
eight presidents. Forty years. Five point seven in dog.
