Dread Was His Nature, and He Hared Through Sunlight and Shade, Head Swiveling for the Copperhead He'd Begun to Covet, the Ballyhooed Killer a Camouflaged Godhead on Which His Ingrained Faith Cohered, and Finally His Priesthood

WHO WANTS TO GO? B((arr(gh))ing a b((arr(gh))age of new kaboom I'm going to attempt to a(argh)void daily clusterfucka(argh)ge updates through the holiday weekend. I mean topical updates like here's why Obama particularly sucks today, none of those, PDFs of obscure French philosophers' theories of cultural signifiers and the subaltern and the like are OK. Spark to resolution? Last night I saw William Greider's praising review of the first months of Elizabeth Warren's term as Massachusetts senator, typed Greider writes Warren a love letter, linked. Rimshot noise. She may be who Greider and her fans think she is now, should she gain power and influence we'll see, my actuarial tables differ from theirs, mine set by and read by an evangelical apostate. Still, I can take four days off of easy rimshot trolling. Can't I? A farewell to blogging. I have entered negotiations on daily obligations - as in not having them - with my editor, publisher, publicist, and ghost-writer. neither the wish nor the power. Prunella reminded me both of The Evens concert and The Evens song. The Three O'Clock. I watched the first half - United sucks - but what needs saying is Eddie Johnson is a punkass fool. Goff gets snarky. OK, another soccer aargh: fucking Adidas ruins everything it touches. A Dog with Wings (I think it's unlocked, if not, email me, I'll send you a PDF). It took me a while to Simic, but I'm in. Wrist injury sidelines orchestra conductor! Les-rivieres-sont-des-chemins. Which reminds me there are a couple of new places over in Newest Gag the Second. So slender a basis for a lifetime friendship. For instance, this one. Knausgaard, for those of you who do. Obscure Sounds' Best of June, with sound. Obligatory link to this song and this song. X is fine, but HOLYFUCK! Galaxie 500. Holyfuck.






THE IMAGINED COPPERHEAD

Andrew Hudgins

The imagined copperhead
hid on the path ahead,
unseen on bronze leaves, unheard,
and a mortal likelihood
at every step. This was childhood,
mine, the woods' jihad
against a boy who'd
intruded among monkshood,
wasp, tick, and nettles haired
with needles. Scrub brush abhorred
him with a horde
of welts, bites, and stings, but he'd
never seen a copperhead,
though he'd looked hard,
taking, as he'd been ordered, heed.
The snake wasn't a falsehood,
though, to him. Dread
was his nature, and he hared
through sunlight and shade, head
swiveling for the copperhead
he'd begun to covet, the ballyhooed
killer a camouflaged godhead
on which his ingrained faith cohered,
and finally his priesthood.