- Above Theme Song Friday 7/5/13 3:15 PM EDT which appeared in my head after conversation with acquaintance - no one who reads this blog, though of course your opinion is your own - in which I was told I'm fucking nuts.
- Two arrghless days. Made it two days. One more than the record.
- American piracy.
- Not sure how Snowden gets to Nicaragua or Venezuela.
- The servility of the satellites.
- Villager Court Jester mocks Obama for becoming a Villager.
- Motherfucking Villagers. Forgive me, I've had multiple chances to run many of these fuckers down on Mass and Nebraska and Wisconsin Avenues and chose the unincarcerated life instead, selfish, hypocritical, and non-revolutionary bastard that I am.
- Fuckface Hiatt.
- A revealing episode in DC groupthink.
- The trials of Hannah Arendt.
- Joyce Carol Oates twoots a cowpie.
- How to destroy a community.
- On motherfucking blooger.
- City of garbage.
- The Confession of St Jim-Ralph.
- Cocteau, for those of you who do.
- Francis Bacon, for those of you who do.
- I've again turned to Ishiguro to save me. Pushed rereading of Never Let Me Go ahead by two years. Expect excerpts.
- It's been eight years since Never Let Me Go released. Anyone heard anything about Ishiguro in any newsworthy context, much less a new novel?
- Frank O'Hara.
- Excellent new ear candy below the poem, but first, I'm an
ROBINSON AT HOME
Weldon Kees
Curtains drawn back, the door ajar.
All winter long, it seemed, a darkening
Began. But now the moonlight and the odors of the street
Conspire and combine toward one community.
These are the rooms of Robinson.
Bleached, wan, and colorless this light, as though
All the blurred daybreaks of the spring
Found an asylum here, perhaps for Robinson alone,
Who sleeps. Were there more music sifted through the floors
And moonlight of a different kind,
He might awake to hear the news at ten,
Which will be shocking, moderately.
This sleep is from exhaustion, but his old desire
To die like this has known a lessening.
Now there is only this coldness that he has to wear.
But not in sleep.—Observant scholar, traveller,
Or uncouth bearded figure squatting in a cave,
A keen-eyed sniper on the barricades,
A heretic in catacombs, a famed roué,
A beggar on the streets, the confidant of Popes—
All these are Robinson in sleep, who mumbles as he turns,
“There is something in this madhouse that I symbolize—
This city—nightmare—black—”
He wakes in sweat
To the terrible moonlight and what might be
Silence. It drones like wires far beyond the roofs,
And the long curtains blow into the room.
