a black dog lies in the road, panting

• Trump *will* burn the house down, our shitlords know this
• Our shitlords signaling - this could have been released in 1213, like the tax story - enough, time to consolidate gains, it's what Democratic potuses are for
• they hope he (dies) loses, the fat bastard, before he burns the house down 
• fatter, bastarder, our shitlords, golden in scotus
• Triskelion bets made if Trump burns the house down (Triskelions bets made if he doesn't)
  

NEW JOHN CALE!

• Our shitlords plan to continue destroying the habitable world
• Shitlord kabuki
• Deep Anthropocene
• O, there was a blogroll culling, many dispatched to cemeteries at blogrolls bottom, no one was deleted, I don't think anyone interred reads this shitty blog, but if yes and you're not where you once were you're still here, and as always, thanks for reading
• Motherfucking Democrats
• Gravy train
• The Pope attacks neoliberalism more than Democrats (or American Catholics)
• Pigs
• First lowering no whales die (a whale took a glancing blow of a harpoon) but gruesome upcoming
• Death the the proposed crematorium in the neighborhood I grew up in!
• William T Vollmann has lower odds to win than Krasznahorkai?
• Hey! Moco, DC, and Nova friends here, family's new baby allergic to cats and brokenhearted family needs find home for two cats, eight and nine years old, I haven't met the cats but they sound wonderful, if interested I can put you in contact, help please.
• Twelve worse MOCO parking lots
• For the exact number of times I've read Ishmael's description of his first encounter with Ahab's hired assassins I've gone back and read the chapter Elijah just like Ishmael told me too
• I *just* miss the cut again
• The experience of experience itself
• Dancing
• Old John Cale

AUDADE WITH BURNING CITY

Ocean Vuong

South Vietnam, April 29, 1975: Armed Forces Radio played Irving Berlin’s “White Christmas” as a code to begin Operation Frequent Wind, the ultimate evacuation of American civilians and Vietnamese refugees by helicopter during the fall of Saigon.

            Milkflower petals on the street

                                                     like pieces of a girl’s dress.

May your days be merry and bright ...

He fills a teacup with champagne, brings it to her lips.

            Open, he says.

                                        She opens.

                                                      Outside, a soldier spits out

            his cigarette as footsteps

                            fill the square like stones fallen from the sky. May all

                                         your Christmases be white as the traffic guard

            unstraps his holster.

                                        His hand running the hem

of  her white dress.

                            His black eyes.

            Her black hair.

                            A single candle.

                                        Their shadows: two wicks.

A military truck speeds through the intersection, the sound of children

                                        shrieking inside. A bicycle hurled

            through a store window. When the dust rises, a black dog

                            lies in the road, panting. Its hind legs

                                                                                   crushed into the shine

                                                       of a white Christmas.

On the nightstand, a sprig of magnolia expands like a secret heard

                                                                      for the first time.

The treetops glisten and children listen, the chief of police

                                facedown in a pool of Coca-Cola.

                                             A palm-sized photo of his father soaking

                beside his left ear.

The song moving through the city like a widow.

                A white ...    A white ...    I’m dreaming of a curtain of snow

                                                          falling from her shoulders.

Snow crackling against the window. Snow shredded

                                           with gunfire. Red sky.

                              Snow on the tanks rolling over the city walls.

A helicopter lifting the living just out of reach.

            The city so white it is ready for ink.

                                                     The radio saying run run run.

Milkflower petals on a black dog

                            like pieces of a girl’s dress.

May your days be merry and bright. She is saying

            something neither of them can hear. The hotel rocks

                        beneath them. The bed a field of ice

                                                                                 cracking.

Don’t worry, he says, as the first bomb brightens

                             their faces, my brothers have won the war

                                                                       and tomorrow ...    

                                             The lights go out.

I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming ...    

                                                            to hear sleigh bells in the snow ...    

In the square below: a nun, on fire,

                                            runs silently toward her god — 

                           Open, he says.

                                                         She opens.