Push Your Face Toward November's Glint of Frost

• Let's get November 2011's Theme Song out of the way right now.
• Fuck Obama.
• Portrait of America in decline.
• The difference between. 
• The Great American Shakedown.
• What would Kurt Vonnegut say?
• Intro to an explanation.
• Now hear this.
• Stages of collapse, revised.
• A master class in occupation.
• Blanchot (for those of you who do) on Marx.
• Panopticon.
• The White House explains..... 
• Pastor Sanctimonious accepts inevitable, shovels horseshit. Do you know he pays someone to cut his hair that way?
• The Cain Scrutiny.
• Halloween is stupid; Halloween in Georgetown stupid x infinity.
  
• Another new painting from Earthgirl:

• I've got a secret and avant garde music.
• Paul Simon interview.
• The moderate man is contemptible.
• Comus. Not the Milton poem, not the MOCO village.
• Heaven in a black leather jacket.
• In the city in the rain.
• As you turn to go.
• You you you you.
• Karen O's new project.

AUBADE

Devin Johnston

A vacant hour
before the sun—
and with it a valve's 
pneumatic hush,
the deep and nautical
clunk of wood,
chanson du ricochet
of rivet gun,
trowel tap,
and bolt drawn—

the moon sets
and water breaks.

Curled within
a warm pleroma,
playing for time,
you finally turn
and push your face
toward November's 
glint of frost,
grains of salt,
weak clarities 
of dawn.

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Guided By Voices - Doughnut For A Snowman by FIRE RECORDS

A Proxy Pain Stands in for the Larger Intangible

That's my complicit-ass torso on Metro riding home yesterday afternoon from Freedom Plaza. I was bored, playing with the settings and taking blind shots with my camera, thinking, Know what? I'm not giving up my comfort - my job, my house, my cars, my cats, my United season tickets. I am willing to give up the every payday Friday night Indian restaurant, and I still can't read anymore so why buy books, though I'm not giving up my Corporate wireless phone or my home internet connection at gunpoint - but I am going to buy some durable, no-frills blankets and take them Downtown this coming Saturday.

I punish the Indian restauranteur to assuage my guilt through paying proxies to protest my moral dispute with Corporate. See where my discretionary fund tugs my disposable money from? It's .06% less-shitty than letting my proxies freeze.

• (h/t)
• Firewalling their fortune. Those Micronesian islands with no extradition treaties with US don't buy themselves (or those private armies).
• Wall Street by the book. 
• Weekend shift at the bullshit factory.
• Boy Scout Troop 1097's campsites were bigger than Occupy DC at Freedom Plaza.
• Chomsky's agonistes.
• Texas, Oregon.
• Wanktacular!
• Leaving Iraq doesn't mean leaving the Middle East.
• Walrus sucks own dick!
• Pastor Sanctimonious criticizes Bachmann's christerness! Pastor Sanctimonious pays someone to cut his hair that way.
• This breaks my heart.
• Maryland crackers pissed! Points to O'Malley.
• Frederick's most-wanted.
• Lit-Stringtown is dead, yo.
• Mining the digital motherlode.

ENTERING THE OUSE

Paula Bohince

First the bad boots

give up their strength, then the toes lift

their anchors. The ankle

bones are broken,

and so on, until the bladder lets go, without

shame, and the genital

organ washes away, the ovum

and her fertile signals. A proxy pain

stands in for the larger

intangible.

Has nothing to do

with tufts of snow blown upon

the unforgiving surface,

but how I mistook the beauty of those particle

deaths, their of-the-world

stardom, as a kind of metaphysical river,

that if I looked long enough,

with enough reverence...

Let my waist, bled numb, stand in

for that miscalculation. And the severed

friendships in the current’s wake, the bloom

blown off the stricken

self. I saw formal water,

knowing my body wanted to go there.

My only child. How

I’ve betrayed you.

Field Trip

Underwhelming, overwhelming. Depressing, inspiring. More tomorrow, or not.

It May Have Been Only Some Way of Reconciling the Two Oblivious Worlds, Which Was His Mission Anyhow

Total h/t. Guess what I'm listening to today.

Also, I'll be at Freedom Plaza noonish, guillotining Barbara, the woman who calls me from Sndy Sprng Bnk every time we're three minutes late with a monthly loan payment. Stop by before or after the beheading, say hi. I'll be in something(s) United, spattered with blood or not depending on when you show up.

Speaking of Occupy.

• The supply of demands.
• The war at home.
• Police state.
• What the crackdown signifies.
• Where the cruelty comes from.
• How the 99% lost.
• Brief guide to contemporary economics. 
• Forced to read swill.
• Bleggalgazing. In comments, I don't make the cut again. 
• YFWP hates Social Security.
• YFWP loves Zombie Gingrich.
• Rendering the crackers to irrelevance.
• WalMart in MOCO!
• ICC!
• Denis Donoghue on Beckett's letters.
• The answer is yes. I love John Cale, but I've never bowed at the altar of VU because of Lou Reed, who I've never got, viscerally.
• A playlist.

JOURNEY

Gerald Stern

How dumb he was to wipe the blood from his eye

where he was sucker-punched and stagger out

onto the Plaza blind. He had been waiting

all night for the acorn moon and eating pineapple

topping over his ice cream and arguing

either physics or philosophy. He thinks,

at this late date, it was the cave again

throwing a shadow, although it may have been

only some way of reconciling the two

oblivious worlds, which was his mission anyhow—

if only there was a second moon. He had a

kind of beard and though he could practically lift

the front end of a car and was already

reading Blake, he had never yet tasted honey.