future games of chance.

 

thas what i'm talkin bout.

 

 The Israeli government released a statement about Aaron Bushnell: “It is tragic to see the hate and incitement toward Israel expressed in such a horrific way.” Dog, that is just so sick and insane. It is tragic to see the hate and incitement expressed in such a horrific way—slaughtering an entire population of Palestinians. Tragically sick and insane. 

 i was a little late for charlie but in time for a surprise mini aussie playdate.

the ruling class is unraveling. 

The martyr, through his or her example of self-sacrifice,
weakens and severs the bonds and the coercive power of the state.
The martyr represents a total rejection of the status quo.
This is why all states seek to discredit the martyr or turn the martyr into a nonperson.
They know and fear the power of the martyr,
even in death.


-Chris Hedges

 

word of the leap day, unflappable.

 

always receiving messages from the universe.

 

 

tower of power

slowly subsides

into wetland

 wargame simulation between israel-u.s. and iran goes nuclear. nuclear weapons facility in texas panhandle shuts down briefly in wildfire. prepositions are now allowed at the end of sentences. 

 

did you know it was a leap year today?
no, did you?
no, but now i do.

 

william, it's like a mausoleum, like a prison tower, a tower of civic gaslighting and spin, a stone torch of the power elite, the gentrifiers, the world-builders, the war makers. a monument of displacement, a museum of anti-democracy, a tomb of the commons. a monolith at the end of the midway. it's terrible feng shui! or is that overstating the case?

 fragments imply wholes but they may also be whole as fragments independent of the original whole which may have only ever been implied.

 i finally sent a note about mark petchey talking about tennis players taking scalps for their belts. i was telling r. every time i listen to the numbskull i wait for the word scalp to pop out of that vacuous abyss. 

i'm embarrassed by my writing, not always but often. it goes back to pre-school, before writing, when i made pictures the teacher criticized. i wrote a story in college that was read in class and was ridiculed. i was told i used i too much, and i wrote like there was no point of view. i felt like i had to fill a void. once i read at a coffe house and i waited til i was last and then i didn't know how to stop. now i try to be detached and say it's just fragments. i remember when i was silent and i only wanted to be recognized but i couldn't speak. the hollow place that would be a well of words. a kid in there.

the space where someone's missing is an empty presence. we hold the space. it may be someone unmet, who lived here before. i was looking at the eagle door knocker on the front door remembering someone who listened to the knocking in the time before. then there are the ghosts we knew as people, and our own we live with now.

 

 lydia says there's a part of the brain that gets shut off when one dreams, so the dreamer can't tell they're dreaming, but i know when i'm dreaming, even if it feels real, the same way as when i'm awake if i imagine something's happening or may be about to happen. doesn't life all seem dreamlike, a fantastic or mundane dream?

 

first black president occupies former enslaver president jackson's park.

 

 might is right is not realism. the hegemons compete while the rest resist and endure. it's remarkable to think that the jewish state is committing genocide and the u.s. stands with israel. can they kill all the palestinians? no way. they've killed so many yet the resistance  grows, even in the hegemonic states. but the problem is the lobby controls the president. from the palestinian perspective, it makes no difference who that is. the problem is, from the human perspective, we are all palestinians.

uncommit to genocide. 22 veterans a day commit suicide a day over what they've done in the u.s. military. aaron bushnell died to stop the genocide, for the resistance, for justice and a free palestine. 

 

is this what the end of the colonial empire looks like?
a grim carceral tower in the park?

 

 oh, we are firmly attached to the moment, but we look around and wonder, what will the future of the empire look like, and who will we be then.

 yesterday summer in winter. grim celebration. today winter again. no celebration. just grim. 

this is home.

like hell it is.

 the wind is unnerving birds. i'm reading lydia davis thinking if i'd been a writer. i'm a reader. distracted. i'm somewhere else. who said that.

i'm steady thinking about aaron bushnell. 

what a powerful and amazing act of resistance and solidarity.

i'll keep thinking about it. does thinking about things matter? 

i hope so.

 

 so genocide joe is sending air force jets to drop bombs on what's left of gaza, with a million starving people? that should be his final curtain call, but it probably won't be. 

 what's he gonna have in there, if it ain't a library? huh—he's gonna make a museum of spin. it won't actually spin, that thing weighs megatons, it like to sink into the earth. no, he's gonna make a "civil rights" museum, whatchu think, he's gonna make a war crimes museum? 

 

i went up to see if kes was still on 17 and thought what the hell i may as well look at obama's empirical complex and i just felt bored. god damn i'm bored with the landgrab empire. anybody who loves parks de facto hates obama. he's an evil sumbitch.

 

well, hello there, duggie, s'good to see you.

 

 

Crazy Weather

It’s this crazy weather we’ve been having:
Falling forward one minute, lying down the next
Among the loose grasses and soft, white, nameless flowers.
People have been making a garment out of it,
Stitching the white of lilacs together with lightning
At some anonymous crossroads. the sky calls
To the deaf earth. The proverbial disarray
Of morning corrects itself as you stand up.
You are wearing a text. The lines
Droop to your shoelaces and I shall never want or need
Any other literature than this poetry of mud
And ambitious reminiscences of times when it came easily
Through the then woods and ploughed fields and had
A simple unconscious dignity we can never hope to
Approximate now except in narrow ravines nobody
Will inspect where some late sample of the rare,
Uninteresting specimen might still be putting out shoots, for all we know.

John Ashbery

 i saw a text, tony didn't know who mom was. i don't know if he thought she was granny weezie or a stranger. we went in the secret garden to see a hawk but did not see. and to talk to mom. she said they're falling apart. then i see another mulberry tree killed and tossed aside, and i think maybe that's a prelude to the destruction of our secret garden. we knew it wouldn't last, but jeezus, will there be any secret gardens left? i heard the fear in mom's voice. i have to say it goes back many years, the fear, and yet it's near the end. and yet i feel like in general it's a kind of ending in time, and we're all in it even if we may not be near dying.

 under the bell tower there are parts of birds dropped by the peregrines. i hear them calling and i hear the bells. i saw two sandhill cranes heading west. the birds don't know where to go in this crazy weather. 

 it's strange. it's so warm i'm in shorts and a t, and soon it will be freezing. people are celebrating but it's a grim celebration, a dirge for mother earth.

 obama began to build his dark tower around 2021 in the late capitalocene choosing the former slave-master andrew jackson's park for his mordor stronghold and destroying olmsted's plan of a park for the people.

photo by dolly