which we must nibble on as if nibbling on donuts, by which I mean rubrics, glittering rubrics in the dry heat of an empty test bank

• Earthgirl's blazes.
• Beloveds and Mocomofos, she has a show opening next month, check your mail for postcard. 
• Alternatively, email me, I'll send info.
• We were supposed to do a long hike yesterday in Shenandoah, but my direct report, who works weekends, fell down, went boom, broke angle Friday. I worked most motherfucking yesterday.
• Fuck work, fuck being a boss, and for more, see previous post.
• New Pere Ubu:

• The new album clicked - finally - last night around 1030.
• Selective Feminism and the Myth of the Bernie Bro.
• I hate motherfucking Democrats posts with angry documentation drives pings by three.
• No more documentation today. 
• DC United plays its last game ever at RFK today.
• When I blogged every DCU game it drove down pings by ten.
• My need to Fine Metaphor Abound this one last time sign of how small I am.
• Was there for this:

 

• I remember the year I started United season tickets, not the year I quit.
• After the 2013, 2014, or 2015 season? 
• It was midway through a season I knew there would not be another season.
• It was before the new stadium was a done deal, when I was convinced there would never be a new stadium - I quit when something that would have made me quit seemed an impossibility.
• See Fuck-Me Jig tag in bumper. 
• That this distinction is dear to me speaks to how small I am. 
• Was there for this.

• Blunt Force Trauma.
• Noah and Shoah.
• Maggie's weekly links.
• { feuilleton }'s weekly links.
• Leave novelists out of fiction.
• Sparks.
• Heaven on their minds.
• Jim's Icelandic Adventure, continued....
• I want to trip. Someone buy me clean orange sunshine, some for you too.
• Listen to this:

SENTENCE

Daniel Borzutzky

Ain’t nothing more beautiful than a French diplomat in an

Italian suit discussing the intimate ties between

poetry and constipation with a United States

Senator in a discount blazer from the Men’s Wearhouse bought

especially for the occasion of proposing the

Anti-Chimera Act, a prime indicator that if children were

once the future, they are not the past, which is growing

hairier every moment, so as to keep us from

penetrating its insides, which we must nibble on as if

nibbling on donuts, by which I mean rubrics, glittering

rubrics in the dry heat of an empty test bank full of

raccoons with flexible snouts and long tails that

materialize in the shrubbery as thick-set stocky

fraternity brothers suicide bomb colleges full of free

thinking mavericks with tuning forks in their ears and rubber dicks

in their pockets, a veritable cure for loneliness and

its side effects, including the desire to fantasize

about mythological genitalia in the pants of

pundits who declare that to be alive is

fundamentally okay as long as poets test their

verses on guinea pigs before submitting them to us

humans as we exit the amalgamated marshland of

surplus value and enter an ordinary evening on

which ordinary people dream of lubricated condoms

for dogs, of mules who practice the pull-out method, of birth

control pills for cats, of floating trousers that haunt city squares

in search of red-walled boutiques where silk stockings and boot-cut

chinos fight for the attention of disembodied legs

while merchants masturbate, aroused by visions of painless

castration, aroused by hands without arms scribbling conjunctions

into dusty ceilings, aroused by hands without arms stirring

infinite bowls of soup, aroused by module-makers who

insist only on the metaphorical value of money

as represented in the hieroglyphics painted on the

walls of financiers who accumulate capital through the

unjustified sexual behavior of adulterous

women who appear asymmetrically—legs over heads, hands

coming out of butts—in public ceremonies in which

syringes suck out erroneous feelings from their bodies

while suits and ties stuff bones and ears into decorative

bottles and jars.

 

Was Just Reminded: My Throb re: Obit Yes

They Sniffed Us Out of Holes with the Animals They Had Programmed

• Divine born seventy-two years ago today.
• I have been saying three times and will say three times more: We are being reprogrammed.
• I am telling you three times this is a permanent tic, the telling you I am telling you three times.
• Smoke drifting in the wind.
• Death of LOUD SIDE! Fuck United. Fuck me.
• Let me know if you want me to turn you on to Borzutzky.

DREAM SONG #16

Daniel Borzutzky

They sniffed us out of the holes with the animals

they had programmed and there are blows in life so

powerful we just don’t know and there were trenches

and there was water and it poured in through our mouths

  

and out of our ears and there were things we saw in the

sand at that moment of sinking: mountains and daisies

and tulips and rivers and the bodies of the people we

had been and the bodies of the people we had loved

  

and we felt hooks coming through the trenches and we

felt hooks coming through the sand and I saw hooks coming

through my child’s clothes and I wanted him to know that they

would never be able to scoop us out of the sand but of course

  

it wasn’t true they had scooped us out of the sand and our

mouths were so full of dirt it is what they do when you’re

dead and they made us spit and they beat us until our mouths

were empty and they paid us for constructing the mountain and

  

it was me and L and we looked for S and we looked for J and J

and we looked for O and we looked for R and we looked for J

and S in the holes in which the bodies of those we loved were

hiding or dying or sinking or stealing some shelter some little

  

worm’s worth of cover to keep their bodies from dissolving

into the maniac murmurs of this impossible carcass economy

Asking Forgiveness of His Tongueless Head

• All I want to do is hike with Earthgirl.
• Popovich calls Trump a "soulless coward!"
• (Different) Popovich: Sure, but he's winning. Large. 
• Fossil Economy.
• Brief history of neoliberal deregulation.
• End of Times.
• America: Toad Away.
• Yes I did move the blogroll column to the right of main column for a day and a half.
• Nothing more than I wanted to see if I'd like better.
• Was the blaze photos is all.
• { feuilleton }'s weekly links.
• Giovanni's trip through The Inferno, eleventh circle, links to previous ten.
• For your unpleasure.
• RIP Richard Wilbur.
• UPDATE! The scope and precision of Richard Wilbur.

THE PARDON

Richard Wilbur

My dog lay dead five days without a grave 

In the thick of summer, hid in a clump of pine 

And a jungle of grass and honey-suckle vine. 

I who had loved him while he kept alive
   

Went only close enough to where he was 

To sniff the heavy honeysuckle-smell 

Twined with another odor heavier still 

And hear the flies' intolerable buzz.
   

Well, I was ten and very much afraid. 

In my kind world the dead were out of range 

And I could not forgive the sad or strange 

In beast or man. My father took the spade
    

And buried him. Last night I saw the grass 

Slowly divide (it was the same scene 

But now it glowed a fierce and mortal green) 

And saw the dog emerging. I confess
   

I felt afraid again, but still he came 

In the carnal sun, clothed in a hymn of flies, 

And death was breeding in his lively eyes. 

I started in to cry and call his name,
   

Asking forgiveness of his tongueless head. 

... I dreamt the past was never past redeeming: 

But whether this was false or honest dreaming 

I beg death's pardon now. And mourn the dead.