- We thought we would hike Sugarloaf Sunday but when browsing through 60 Hikes within 60 Miles of DC trail guide while watching The Special One kill Scousers' dreams I came upon Bull Run Mountain Conservancy, we thought try something new. It was a terrific (kinda Sugarloafy) hike, a six mile circuit with a thousand foot climb to gorgeous cliffs with a great western overlook.
- We left at half-time actually. Once Steven Gerrard cemented himself forever in Scousers' minds for a monumental fuck-up which gifted Chelsea a goal at half and cost Liverpool the title (provided City win at Everton next week) there was no way Liverpool was going to breakdown The Special One's buses.
- A love letter to Elizabeth Warren. I wrote something catty then whittled it down to this: Elizabeth Warren will never be POTUS if she is who her advocates claim her to be. Which isn't saying she will never be POTUS.
- Welcome to the Age of Meta.
- Los Angeles: Double Face. Today's must, please.
- Storck reminded me Sunday morning of Slugfuckers.
- Maggie's weekly links.
- { feuilleton }'s weekly links.
- New Inquiry's Sunday reads.
- Silliman's always generous litlinks.
- The Idea of London.
- The Dream of the Novelist: American fiction in the 1960s.
- Bill Knott died sometime in March, I didn't know until Mark posted some Knott poems yesterday. This is true: I've posted Bill Knott poems for years, and every time except for when I posted one March 31st of this year he sent me a thank you email.
- Three Knott poems I posted last night.
- Sonnet.
- Music for Steamed Rocks.
DEARTH DEMISE
Bill Knott
Satiety help me I have inhabit
of this world. Extant upon its designs
to be more aimlessly fluttering at
the window, to shadow all the patterns
it offers each sun. In frames far as eye
I draw my words towards a juggler's shards
as if our fallings-down our deaths occurred
but did not involve a lot of colloquialized
arm movements, the body language throws. Thus
the shape of your silence when it speaks me
is different than mine in saying you,
though both of them resemble that spasm hymned as
repose lifepause a happen of sorts the way
the horizon's a long way without meaning to.
