I’d Give Up Years Yes Years of My Own Life for Such a Gulpable Semblable

Took I-68 west from Hancock through Cumberland to Morgantown then I-79 north to Washington PA instead on the Turnpike and gorgeous, what we could see in the rain and the fog, what we couldn't see in the rain and the fog. There is a farm on the right heading west just shy of Flintstone, just before crossing Town Creek, that I could put 36 holes for disc and Earthgirl could raise llamas and alpacas, it's what I want for Giftmas, please buy it for me.

More, more photos, few links, poems, music, below fold

Made great time, even driving through downtown Wheeling - the above is the I-70 bridge over the Ohio between Wheeling and Bridgeport, which of course requires I give you this poem (for the umpteenth time):

IN RESPONSE TO A RUMOR THAT THE OLDEST WHOREHOUSE IN WHEELING, WEST VIRGINIA HAS BEEN CONDEMNED

James Wright

I will grieve alone,

As I strolled alone, years ago, down along   

The Ohio shore.

I hid in the hobo jungle weeds

Upstream from the sewer main,

Pondering, gazing.

I saw, down river,

At Twenty-third and Water Streets

By the vinegar works,

The doors open in early evening.

Swinging their purses, the women   

Poured down the long street to the river   

And into the river.

I do not know how it was

They could drown every evening.

What time near dawn did they climb up the other shore,   

Drying their wings?

For the river at Wheeling, West Virginia,   

Has only two shores:

The one in hell, the other

In Bridgeport, Ohio.

And nobody would commit suicide, only   

To find beyond death   

Bridgeport, Ohio.

Well, making good time until Bethesda! (also near a Barnesville!) where Ohio DOT caused a ten mile back-up on I-70 so two fuckers in neon vests could smoke cigarettes in the right lane of bridge over US 22. Fuckers. Still, made Zanesville in little over six hours. Planet needed finish some papers, so didn't drive to Bamgier, instead tried a local restaurant the hotel desk manager highly recommended (we could walk to an Olive Garden or Red Lobster from the hotel, and fuck that).

Muddy Miser's, on the banks of the Muskingum. We sat at the table under the fish in the website photo. Earthgirl had the walleye reuben, I had the walleye fish-and-chips, yummy, charming.

Bamgier tomorrow, Parent's Weekend activities then dinner with Planet's new buddy (who shares Planet's name, her fifth friend with the same name, we thought we'd picked not a unique but a pretty and plain little used name, and no, Planet's generation is full of Planet's real name) and her parents, then back to Zanesville to sleep before Saturday. Expect more photos.

• The fight for real democracy at the heart of Occupy.
• Motherfucking Democrats.
• Sweeping up the filth.
• Which side are you on?
• On the 53%.
• Percentiles.
• On the 53%.
• Alas, I cannot help quoting The World's Shittiest Human: Exhibit C. To the villainy-of-the-rich theme emanating from Washington, a child is born: Occupy Wall Street. Starbucks-sipping,  Levi’s-clad, iPhone-clutching protesters denounce corporate America even as they weep for Steve Jobs, corporate titan, billionaire eight times over. These indignant indolents saddled with their $50,000 student loans and English degrees have decided that their lack of gainful employment is rooted in the malice of the millionaires on whose homes they are now marching — to the applause of Democrats suffering acute Tea Party envy and now salivating at the energy these big-government anarchists will presumably give their cause. Except that the real Tea Party actually had a program — less government, less regulation, less taxation, less debt. What’s the Occupy Wall Street program? Eat the rich. And then what? Haven’t gotten that far. No postprandial plans. But no matter. After all, this is not about programs or policies. This is about scapegoating, a failed administration trying to save itself by blaming our troubles — and its failures — on class enemies, turning general discontent into rage against a malign few. Sure, he tossed that off in forty-five seconds, but still, he hasn't written more passionately meant sentences in ten years. Guillotine, motherfucker.
• Come let us reason together. 
• Occupy London.
• I am an atheist who says his prayers.
• Williams/Ashbery.
• If you're looking for a way out.
• Listened to Tindersticks for three hours yesterday while driving.
• Just a dog.
• People keep coming around.
• Don't ever get tired.
• El diablo en el ojo.
• Snowy in F# Minor.
• Are you trying?
• No place so alone.

PHILOSOPHER ORDERS CRISPY PORK

Heather McHugh

I love him so, this creature I do pray

was treated kindly. I will pay

as much as pig-lovers see fit

to guarantee him that. As for his fat,   

I’d give up years yes years of my   

own life for such

a gulpable semblable.   

(My life! Such as it is! This

liberality of leaves! The world

won’t need those seventeen more

poems, after all, there being

so few subjects to be treated. Three

if by subject we mean anyone

submitted to another’s

will. Two if by subject we mean   

topic. One if by death we wind up

meaning love. And none if a subject   

must entail

the curlicue’s indulgence of itself.)