Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Will nobody just swat this fly?

Hey, c'mon, guys, this is gettin' tiresome.
Our Great White Hope of Unbelievable Deals
is trashing the Atlantic Alliance, dismant-
ling the European Union, and selling Crimea
down the drain for an arms treaty its invad-
er is begging for, and he's not even on the
payroll yet. Or is he? He's telling his pals
to keep whatever they can grab, if they will
only stroke his fanny. Wow. That's original.

              Yo, Jefferson Davis. Take Fort Sumter.
              Let's create a brand new relationship. 

And the majority Party in Congress? Are we kidding each other, or are we noticing finally how
little it takes to bend them over, for his
signature on their bills of fantasies of ruining the nation, even if it costs the ancient trust
of the world where they plan to do business? 

Or are they so insulated by their rotten boroughs, they can hustle us for anything that lands in their pocket?

i, iii   Michael Bidner
ii       Robert McCabe

Monday, January 16, 2017

Abroad at home

I never forget that it was a fit of laughter
that changed the wind for us. Since then, I've
always kept something absurd to say to myself
when things go wrong: when, for example, the
customs officers hunched over your expired pass-
port decide your fate in an incomprehensible
language, and after a few ill-received inter-
ruptions, you scarcely dare lift your eyes from
the ground.

Then some silly pun, or the memory of a situation which still seems comic, is enough to give you heart - even to make you laugh out loud, alone in your corner - and it's the turn of the men in uniform not to understand; 

they look at you in puzzlement, 
raise an eyebrow, check their 
fly-buttons and assume an ex-
pression, and then the obstac-
les they'd put in your way are
removed, who knows why.

Nicolas Bouvier
Robyn Marsack
Marlboro Press, 1992
New York Review Books, 2009©

Nicole Gomes
Ioannis Stefanidis
Kwamman Chu

Sunday, January 15, 2017



         More and more
         we become our
         own soup kit-
         chen, anyway.


The sting of bein' verified

I have a debt to Dooley Wil-
son, Sam at Rick's American
Bar, who hoisted a glass of
Cordon Rouge with Miss Elsa
and Rick, to pluck the sting
of Paris' bein' occupied, by
darkening phalanxes of grey.

A light that has gone out in
our "news" has seemed to have
gone out here. It would only
have been arrogant to try to
be exempt from a sudden glob-
al darkening. That this might
have emerged from our chaste
swath of North America, which
is to say, from the most ar-
able land and welcoming ports
the globe has ever offered to
a continental fragment its o-
ceans to preserve - yes, it
has been a disturbing inter-
val in which to question what, 
indeed, we have done here. 

This phalanx isn't novel. On-
ly its voice can claim that;
while behind him, are all the 
scam's usual suspects. He as-
sumes office by the most ac-
rid division since Lincoln,
without so much as the fig-
leaf of a plurality, but by
quirk of a slavery-favoring
Constitution -- not a lynch-

pin our first Republican ac-

Wednesday's séance with Amer-
ica's press, conducted in New 
York by the nation's eclipsing 
ass of undiapered panic and 
rage, in the tawdry vault of 
his own pyramid, was all any 
observer needs to see of that 
mesmerising distraction he 
exerts upon a Fourth Estate
whose office he dreads, which 
his incurable gloom compels 
him to tease. Anyone else who
comments in public is clubbed
by a klaxon dismissal of rel-
evance, for the testimony of 
a loser. Now we are reminded:
we're here for all that.

For rmbl, I remember how we
opened with a tentative but
happy welcome, to pursue an
elusive particle one could
not have defined better than
by the exclusion proposed in
the greeting, upper right.
How wonderful now to be hung
for a sheep, for time light-
ly served as a lamb.

I don't see anything in this
petulantly obtrusive fiend
of brutish chaos, to obstruct
our founding faith in some-
thing certain, that we sense 
is there, constantly urgent 
and worthy. On the contrary.
He martyrs himself every day.

One could want no purer pro- 
pulsion, no lovelier deliv- 
ery to that sustaining par-
ticle at last. He teaches us 
to breach the bastions of our
oceans, the veils of our bor-
ders, the shadows of exhaust-
ed fictions that he bellows 
to inflate. All that's left  
is all that could be matter,
if ever it could perish. 

Michael Curtiz
Julius J. Epstein
Philip G. Epstein
Howard Koch 
Warner Brothers, 1942©

untitled, Portugal

Michael Bidner
Border collies, Baltic Sea

Saturday, January 14, 2017

Present imperfect

   In the season of the scowl
   upon which we'll be launch-
   ed Friday at noon, an occa-
   sion arises for reflection
   on its origin as a kind of
   affectation of social posi-