A friend suggests Obama operatives leaked the IRS story to rev-up the Right noise machine to drown out the noise of those who are screaming about the DOJ/AP story, Obama operatives fearful the docile and compliant fealty towards Obama by professional liberals and a tame media might be ever-so-slightly tainted. Sure, I'll bite, it's plausible, adding whenever Obama, by incompetence and/or design, kicks the Right's noise machine into full volume you can expect Obama to lurch to the right using the Right's noise machine as cover. But here's the most important issue today: the world's shittiest professional liberal has ruined Star Trek for me forever (and pushed this post's publication date eighteen hours ahead of schedule), so no more shittyass Star Trek allusions for you. Thanks Obama. Worse than Nixon? Major sea change? Machinations of double-headed beasts. Things you might have missed. DC United beer: what should it be called? When baseball isn't baseball. The Vein. Speaking of a shitty professional liberal ruining things. Bowie. Herbert Eimert. Swans' posters. What the fuck is a novel/how do I destroy it? So-so countdown list of Will Oldham albums. Cascade tomorrow, or soon, or not. Sensations. Eno's Obscure Records catalog, w/sound.
YOU RUINED MY EVENING/YOU RUINED MY LIFE
Tom Raworth
i would be eight people and then the difficulties vanish
only as one i contain the complications
in a warm house roofed with the rib-cage of an elephant
i pass my grey mornings re-running the reels
and the images are the same but the emphasis shifts
the actors bow gently to me and i envy them
their repeated parts, their constant presence in that world
i would be eight people each inhabiting the others’ dreams
walking through corridors of glass framed pages
telling each other the final lines of letters
picking fruit in one dream and storing it in another
only as one i contain the complications
and the images are the same, their constant presence in that world
the actors bow gently to me and envy my grey mornings
i would be eight people with the rib-cage of an elephant
picking fruit in a warm house above actors bowing
re-running the reels of my presence in this world
the difficulties vanish and the images are the same
eight people, glass corridors, page lines repeated
inhabiting grey mornings roofed with my complications
only as one walking gently storing my dream
