thom think

skybarn:

fullcredit:

I almost just threw up on some kid’s Jansport.

Except for when they’re hungover.

trapezemusic:

and choruses of village idiots
loosen my tongue speaking zeros
in the mathematics of being!

and all poetry is dead!

and choruses of village idiots
puncture my ears hearing white noise
in the science of existence!

and all poetry is dead!

and choruses of village idiots
gouge out my eyes flashing absence
in the technology of survival!

and all poetry is dead!

and choruses of village idiots
staple my hands grasping nothing
in the physics of creation!

and all poetry is dead!
and walt whitman is pissing on the grave of t.s. eliot!
and all poetry is dead!
and van gogh is fracturing the skull of jackson pollock!
and all poetry is dead!
and margot fonteyn is dissecting the corpse of rudolf nureyev!
and all poetry is dead!

and all poetry is dead!
and all poetry is dead!
and all poetry is dead!
and all poetry is dead!

[I wrote this on 24 October 1984, after learning of Richard Brautigan’s death. As far as I know, Brautigan left no suicide note. He was simply found dead. I was angry for weeks afterward; I’m not even sure why.]

Thanks for turning me on to Brautigan so many years back.

skybarn:

minou:

misterhippity:

Palin attorney Thomas Van Flein on Saturday warned legal action may be taken against bloggers and publications that reprint what he calls fraudulent claims.

“To the extent several websites, most notably liberal Alaska blogger Shannyn Moore, are now claiming as ‘fact’ that Governor Palin resigned because she is ‘under federal investigation’ for embezzlement or other criminal wrongdoing, we will be exploring legal options this week to address such defamation,” Van Flein said in a statement. “This is to provide notice to Ms. Moore, and those who re-publish the defamation … that the Palins will not allow them to propagate defamatory material without answering to this in a court of law.”

OH SHIT HIPPITY! For real though, it was on Denton’s site. So, more like FUCK YEAH HIPPITY!

This is how fascism wins. Sue people for criticizing you, or investigating stories. Then you start forcing people to name the names of other people who may have criticized you. Then forced confessions.

trapezemusic:

I am maybe eleven, riding in the back seat of a big turquoise Pontiac between my brother and sister on a long stretch of straight Mississippi back road, listening to Johnny Cash sing “That’s What You Get for Loving Me” on the radio. My mom and dad are talking in the front seat, not arguing exactly, but tense. She has the beginnings of a headache and he’s wanting to be lost in the music.

“Can you turn that down a bit?” she asks.

My dad reaches forward and gives the silver volume knob a slight twist to the left; Johnny’s stentorian voice becomes a mere boom. My heart drops a bit: I like the louder version. I strain to hear both my parents’ conversation and the sound of the radio.

“Is that better?” my dad asks.

My mom settles more deeply into the passenger seat and shades her eyes with the back of her wrist. “Johnny Cash never could carry a tune in a slop bucket,” she observes.

“Ann, it isn’t about whether or not he can sing,” my father says. “It’s about the songs. It’s about what he’s saying.”

“It’s about that voice grating on my nerves right now,” my mom insists.

I know where this is headed, when suddenly it takes an odd turn.

“What do you think, J-R,” my dad asks. “You’re the music critic in the family. You think he can sing?”

I am surprised and more than a little pleased. My dad wants my opinion. But it’s a tricky spot, treading the line between the two of them. Finally I go with my love of the music.

“He sings great,” I say. Then, in deference to my mom I add, “But it scares me.”

My dad glances quickly back from the road and chuckles. “Why scares you, son?” he asks.

“Because he doesn’t sound like most of those radio singers,” I say. “He sounds real.”

I can see from the attitude of my father’s shoulders and a shift in his hands on the wheel that he is pleased with my answer.

“Yeah,” he says. “He’s real all right. Isn’t he, Ann?”

“A little too real for me at the moment,” my mom says.

She feigns disgust, but pulls my dad’s right hand from the wheel and holds it in her left. The next song is by Loretta Lynn, and she hums snatches of it.

Gotdamn!!! You are on fire tonight my brother! Thx for sharing some excellent storytelling (I suspect it is based on real events, be even if it was complete fiction, your words made a movie in my mind. Fuck yeah.)

trapezemusic:

skybarn:

@skybarn:

@KarlRove:

The more scrutiny it gets, the less appealing Obama-Care will become. short.to/g9ju #TCOT

Just like you.

I wish someone would tweet Rove and say, “If it weren’t for Obama, your ass would be in prison, motherfucker.” Fuck you, Karl Rove, and the administration you rode in on.