Day of the Dead Hello

Reflection, not poem, on conversation I had over pints last night with my friend Ready for Inevitability, above posted because I wanted to see grid on new grid template. Ready for Inevitability, now tagged here as H, an initial-de-blog, motherfucking employer social media spies, said that Inevitability's evasive non-answers when forced to say anything and silence whenever possible is strategic genius. Why should Inevitability court targeting from GOP assclowns when GOP assclowns are targeting each other? I conceded the point. Still, I said, not one person I know who will vote against any GOP assclown no matter the Democratic candidate doesn't despise - I'm not exaggerating - despise Inevitability. Blinking, H blinked. On the bar TV above H's head a cop picked up a Ferguson protester and threw him to the ground like a wet stuffed animal, and the bar exploded in laughter, some fuck started chanting USA! USA! USA! and the rest of the bar joined in....

• A twitter friend twooted something with words Loaf and music? so Renaldo and the Loaf (which he had never heard of).
• Above anecdote (the fucks in the bar, not the Loaf tweet) re: fine metaphors abound.
• Above anecdote reminder: Me, the one that hates motherfucking cops? I'm the weird one, especially when I suggest the line of who gets beaten is inexorably creeping north.
• Someone's knocking at my door. Krasznahorkai on "the terrible meeting between boorishness and aggressiveness."
• The impossibility of connection.
• Children of the Future.
• Capitalist Realism & Neoliberal Hegemony.
• +NDXOXCHWDRGHDXORVI+
• Magic is afoot.
• Readers on steroids.
• Bravo.
• Rolls like cream, wears like iron.
• Acrostic Gospel.

GIFT

Alice Notley

Nothing will hurt you that much despite how you feel

the stress on your back shapes your insight

this splendid November rain Toussaint. I find

you by your marks, he says

                                                  an imprint

But when I summon you, I talk to—I say—

my memory of your face. It’s kind of crazy

to others. They’re not very interesting he says.

When I first came to this country, and now

I know the language I say, but I had in a dream

spoken it many years previously. That is,

not the language of the dead the language

of France. I took one year of French in 1964

and then nothing but once, in 1977 I spoke French

in a dream all night: I was in the future I

moved here in 1992. Country of the more

logical than I? though the people of my quartier

know and like me, even as I a foreigner remain strange

You do everything alone a woman said to me.

There are ways to care without interfering

but the French speak of anguish frequently

they are conscious of emotional extremity

a terrible gift. It’s all a gift, he says . . .

some haven’t been opened. I’m not sure

he said that it’s nearly my sixty-seventh birthday

today though it’s the day of the dead hello

we love you they say.