Tuesday, January 12, 2010


7. black swan

freed of these necessities
what might we not accomplish
what might we not accomplish
in the antelucan darg
someone else's scriptures
colors that burn within me
warm, humid morning spangled
with red and with green my door
broken at the drive through not
because it's true but because
it's old and part of that is
claiming its unwords are true
but they're not that kind of words
my useless captaincy
in pagandom

transverse shadowings
tinglings in my driving hand

the old bright following of faded guidelines
together one or in solitude
massed leafless trees wheel

the rhythm will continue
as i reclaim my small loaned picture
flight of birds

did i fail to create fitting progeny
road with no shoulder
the heater finally kicking in

way past the legal limit
i'd never given much thought to how i would
die nor now

as the wavelets slide en masse
through the line of white
bird-perched poles

is it railroads you want · clouds of billowing
steam · in the lonely night a whistle
or only that something still

after jahiliyyah has faltered
something still on wheels
moving against the backdrop of lazy gray

and the birds
waiting perhaps for the wind to drop
my words too

not yet to take wing
and no one will tell us what
the season is nor its arcane requirements

body of the oak
the Trinity Billabong
just be brave

pale hazy skyline of towers yet standing
they could be occupied · even now

Guess i gotta post this. But you know how i'm starting to feel? Like after i stepped in some dog shit, & wiped my shoe off as best i could. How i feel about the dog shit is how i feel about this president. It's not worth hating, it's not even worth being angry. Just wipe the dog shit off our shoes & keep walking.

Curse of Turan. (No doubt Americans in the 22nd century will believe something similar.)

Alright, it's a bit worse than that.

I feel smeared with shit from head to toe. I feel like i was pushed into a vat of shit by many of my countrymen, who jumped in after me & took an unholy relish in wolfing it down, puking it back up, & swallowing over again the mixture of puke & shit that passed for our national discourse. I feel like i was raped with a glowing neon flagpole. I watched as the arsonists burned my house down & every house on the block, as far as the eye could see, and they called it MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. I feel like a German in 1945. Those thousands & thousands who died, who would still be alive if Gore had won: their families will not wipe away the memory of the last 8 years, will they, quite so easily as that?

I feel like my face was melted off, & i have to stand in my uniform for a photograph, & pretend that nothing's wrong.

So goodbye Red-Assed Baboons. You will be remembered.

"The Oughts will surely be discussed as music’s balkan decade..."

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