Friday, March 10, 2017

Suppose it were Friday cxxiii: As we were saying

   I'd pitch some tent for snuggling
   to drink our rising dawn, as hard
   upon the ground as I could tauten
   such a frame and its billows in a
   swell to hold it as we stretch as
   dogs, deaf to complaint of waking

         Cowgill Forge
         January 29, 2017

Thursday, March 9, 2017

"Niggercare" Repeal Launched in GOP Congress

At last the witticism of tagging
the human right of health care to
black menace from Africa, pounded
hysterically and nonstop into the
senses of underclass whites for
two Presidential terms, has en- 
abled the most sweeping assault
upon the poor since Jim Crow cor-
rupted Reconstruction. Coming to
enacting their own homicide near
you, are the perfected maldistri-
butions of 2 hands clapping: the
irrationality of the invisible
hand, unchecked by society, and
the gerrymandering of the US Con-
gress into impromptu islands of
in a defiant raid upon a people's
Treasury and the exemption of med-
ical industrialists from every ob-
ligation for their monopoly power.
It's almost darling: the States

They worked hard for this, ever
since Ronald Reagan invented wel-
fare queens, to juggle the giggles
of the Confederacy. Let them own
the name that brought them so far.

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

Right on track, they admit

The most unstable and destructive figure ever to hold power in the Western Hemisphere, heretofore, was known as The Goat by his own people - under their breath. A vain, lecherous, vicious lout in pimp’s clothing, storming about in an interior kingdom of grandiosity, bankrupty, suspicion and superstition, who made no effort to conceal his love of torture, corruption, and generals he could make or break. He was our pet, our bulwark in unsettled isles against the horrid onslaught of alien ideological terrorism. His name, obviously, was Rafael Trujillo. For 31 years and three months, he was the gaudiest cistern of American largesse against the rule of law and the consent of the governed in what is quaintly called, Latin America. I learned about him as a paperboy, carrying the headlines of his death. It was luridly spectacular, need I say, and the morning newsprint seethed a humid stench to tell about it.

Just as we thought our "virtual" time were safely circumspect in such disseminations, we find it exploited by a "reality" figure, who seized power by vituperations which fastened, first, upon the hateful innocence of menstruation, before garrotting every rival who protested his indecency, and warned of his incompetence. Through it all, a general assumption prevailed against streaming fact, that there is a great taste for such incontinent "carnage" on our stage.

In serial postings, acknowledging that "it's here," it is nevertheless useful to retain a sense of scale in appraising our possession. It's somewhat grave, when the highest ranking law enforcement officer in the land can lie to gain appointment one day, and lie again to say he didn't lie the next, without - you know? - the taking of steps. On the contrary; they're taking only names. But as goes the language, its letters and their words, its statements and their registry, so goes the consent of the governed, by any stretch of the imagination. If I were a student of rhetoric I would say, we don't kill lawyers first. We kill the paperboys.


Mario Vargas Llosa
The Feast of the Goat
Edith Grossman
Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2001©

Explosion of the Church Tower
  Nieuport, Belgium
  October, 1914
Photographer unknown

Monday, March 6, 2017

Unlike Addison, Steele, and Summer Liebling

This establishment, I ask you to
consider, does not come equipped
with a research assistant or in-
tern, for fetching footnotes and
allegorical illustrations. Obvi-
ously, it shows. Needless to say
this places an arduous burden on
memory and concentration, which,
to be strictly honest, sustained
one reasonably well before teal.

side of a duck pond near you has
thrown memory back to that orig-
inator of haberdashery's explos-
ive clashes, Alexander Julian. I
wear sometime a million-year-old
baseball jacket in brown leather
and teal melton cloth, which one
acquired primarily to relieve an
other fool of temptation. It was
very Sutter Street, in its time,
but the present teal renaissance 
extends to rustic rugged Pendle-
ton, I find, taking a cue out of
LL Bean's blanket striped in it,
for a dog's bed. It works OK, if
your own colors are like Thorny,
black and white; or, either one.

If you sculpt, it might be seen.

Richard Serra
Teal corner
Kröller-Muller Museum
Otterlo, Netherlands

Sunday, March 5, 2017

There we are, in the color he wants, in the age of pure credulity

    Children in Head Start,
    he wants to cut off. If
    they hear of this, what
    will it matter to them,
    that he had to exult in
    pain to be a coward; to
    terrify a people, to be
    a liar? Their own life,

Rajah Bose 

Editorial Board 
  of The New York Times
March 5, 2017

Teal field, yellow balls, countless blues

   In short, our mesmerising 
   President is in Florida a-
   gain, restoring his wits
   from another confessional
   salvo of dementia, boast-
   ing of being invaded (can
   you stand it) by a black
   impostor-President. When
   he is restored to Washing-
   ton, will anybody notice?

Robert Darnton
Mesmerism and the
  End of the Enlightenment
  in France
Harvard University Press, 1968©

Martin Conte