At the Mountains of Badness

Art, Books and Literature, Conspiracy and the Occult, Culture, Media, Plus ça change motherfuckers, Poetry, Religion, The Life of the Mind, Uncategorized, War and Politics

This space has been traversed for nearly four months by Jared Kushner, whom I first met about 18 months ago, when he introduced himself after a foreign policy lecture I had given.

-Henry Kissinger

About suffering they were never right,
The Old Ones: how little they understood of fear,
An old man at the mountain when a god draws near
Still mostly pines for a restaurant that’s bright
Enough to read the menu, still delights
That the soup is hot, the winter roads kept clear.
Worshipful terror is for the young, the shear
Effort overwhelms. There was one night
Quite recently when I, arising from
My sleeping soil, called the car and went
To a cocktail party where I met the son-in-law
Of our most recent deity; he seemed
All right. I did not find it evident
That he was yet prepared for Saturn’s maw.
He smiled pleasantly and blankly beamed.

Rainbow of Fruits

Art, Conspiracy and the Occult, Economy, Media, Poetry, Science, Things that Actually Happen, Uncategorized

The value of Juicero is more than a glass of cold-
pressed juice. Much more. The value is in how easy
it is for a frazzled dad to knock the queasy
edge off the half case of Coors Extra Gold
he drank last night because his ex-wife told
him that he’d never keep them. The kids. Her breezy
iPhone alto happy. Remarried a cheesy
real-estate asshole with a Beemer and a billfold.
Fuck you, Kim. “Hey Daddy,” Jaiylyn calls,
“we’re gonna miss the bus.” He sighs and hits
the button. Nothing. The pouch, it seems, is one
day beyond the best-if-used. It all
becomes quite clear. He chews two aspirin, grits
his teeth, and goes to the closet to get his gun.

Dying in Moab

Culture, Media, Poetry, Religion, The Life of the Mind, Uncategorized, War and Politics

Aujourd’hui, the mother of all bombs is dead.
Or was it yesterday? I can’t recall.
The world was bombless once. She spawned them all.
Her ravening brood ate her, starting with her head,
and then, silk-borne on a breeze, her babies fled
into the vast sky above the wrinkled sprawl
of the Hindu Kush, on which they fell, and fall
still: indiscriminate, a wed-
ding or a funeral, a village or
a narrow road. Her million children live
but once and very briefly; none will ever
bear their own next generation; war
can only eat; it cannot love, nor give
itself any meaning whatsoever.

Even Hitler Didn’t

Art, Books and Literature, Conspiracy and the Occult, Culture, Media, Plus ça change motherfuckers, Poetry, The Life of the Mind, Things that Actually Happen, Uncategorized, War and Politics

Leave the seat up. Put the coffee grinds
in the sink. Use the water glass instead
of the wine glass. Leave just a heel of bread.
His secretaries thought him very kind.
His taste in music really was sublime.
His taste in art was lousy, and he mostly read
trash, but it’s true he’d fought well and bled
for his country. He loved his dog. In short, combined
a number of admirable qualities with those
few regrettable decisions that he made;
well, wouldn’t all of us, if forced to choose
between the genteel poverty that goes
with shitty painting and with global war, obey
the sentimental tug, and kill the Jews?

for Sean Spicer

Euclidean Necrology

Justice, Media, Plus ça change motherfuckers, Things that Actually Happen, Uncategorized, War and Politics

While most of the news media will spend the day vacillating wildly between tumescent raptures that it can once again play at war—every Anderson Cooper is a half-baked Hemingway, crusty on the outside but raw dough within, bleating Hollywood military speak for a few hours on the teevee before wiping off the Situation Room drag and heading for those late reservations at Eleven Madison Park—and bootlessly speculating that this is some kind of semi-fictionalized flag operation designed to inoculate Trump against the various accusations that he is some sort of agent of Vladimir Putin and a Soviet Union that never really died, I suspect that Trump’s motivations are, as they always are, precisely what he claims. Whatever else you can say about the man, he is not complex. He saw the cable news pornographic exhibition of children dying in a foreign war and got mad. My grandma saw the same thing and got mad too. “So terrible,” she said. “Those poor people. Someone should do something.” Unlike her, Trump has a Navy, so the someone was him.

Trump is an evil man, but our culture has trained us to believe evil is necessarily a kind of satanic malevolence: not merely bad, but also clever, secretive, and in its way, genius. If it demonstrates human qualities, these must be the result of some scheme within a scheme—the idea that a Hitler could be kind to his secretaries and love his dog strikes us as wholly implausible. But evil isn’t a supra-human quality, and as we move down the spectrum from the vast terror of the Third Reich to the reality-show scheming of Trump’s bunga-bunga consumer fascism, the recognizably human intrudes ever more often. He is a man of feelings and appetites, which is why he is so easily baited and so often mad. As Robert Lowell said of Mussolini: one of us, only pure prose.

Washington, the marble-white skeletal metonym within the bloated body of America, which ruled so fecklessly and uselessly for so many years that a fat grandpa with a 35 handicap and a habit of yelling at the evening news could slip into the presidency while everyone was expecting an avatar of officialdom to squeeze past on a focus-grouped pitch not to change horses in midstream, is always eager for its dummies to cast off the petty concerns of governance and engage in some great martial hoo-dee-doo, so expect to hear plenty about Trump crowning himself in laurel and heading off to confront the Eastern menace. In the real reality, the insoluble situation in Syria is in large part the making of his predecessors, who were lauded whenever they decided to blow something up and harrumphed when they on very rare occasion demurred. By destroying Syria’s neighbor, they created many of the factions that infiltrated in the earliest days of the civil war, and by now, we’ve fought on every single side in a war whose proliferation of sides would make Euclid weep at the possibilities. We’ll go on doing the same, I predict, as Trump, who’s now smelt the napalm, will be eager to do more dealing of it, with Washington, CNN, and the New York Times riding along and hoping to catch a contact buzz.

We could, of course, withdraw completely and simply accept everyone and anyone fleeing the conflict into the US. But I don’t expect to hear those calls in Congress anytime soon.

McDowell County

Culture, Economy, Justice, Media, Plus ça change motherfuckers, Poetry, Uncategorized, War and Politics

What do we mean when we say that Bernie would
have won? We mean that when the news laments
the politicization of capital collecting rents
on common properties and public goods,
while clutching pearls over punching guys in hoods,
though simultaneously dragging our senescent
fast-food addicted moron president
for some absurd point of decorum he’s stood
on its stupid head, what remains in West
Virginia are towns where everyone is dying
from the planned catastrophe of economic
disinvestment: franchised, but dispossessed,
they know it’s politics; he isn’t lying;
un-ratfucked, he would’ve beat the insult comic.

/pol/ite society

Culture, Economy, Education, Justice, Media, Plus ça change motherfuckers, Poetry, Religion, Uncategorized, War and Politics

This is the future that liberals want: a cool
return to norms after the tan excrescence
is excised. Peace? Well, purity of essence.
Articulate. Harvard Law or a comparable school.
Personally dedicated to the rule
of law. A paragon. A recrudescence
in an empire seemingly sunk in convalescence.
Judicious. Stylish. Not a raving fool.
Across an ocean in a dusty town a boy
who’s barely past a cracking voice is set
to marry a girl he’s only recently met.
He vacillates from morbid fear to joy.
He’s droned and bleeds to death at evening prayer.
The liberal president pretends to care.

The True Fairy

Art, Culture, Media, Plus ça change motherfuckers, Poetry, Religion, Science, The Life of the Mind, Uncategorized, War and Politics

My means for critical evaluation
all center on the fable of a little wooden toy
whose earnest desire to become an actual boy
mimics my own self-serious adulation
for a truth as narrow as a lawyer’s accusation,
all causes shorn of context, which I then deploy
to accuse Achilles without Helen of Troy,
Ulysses’s fandi fictor reputation
divorced from his desire for his wife.
Truth is never beautiful; it lies
on a vast ocean like a raft of floating turds,
a shifting host for dull, bacterial life,
an effluence of human compromise:
the foul excreta of silly nerds.

Killer Kings on an Etruscan Cup

Art, Books and Literature, Culture, Economy, Poetry, Religion, The Life of the Mind, Uncategorized, War and Politics

You can’t visit Paris anymore.
There are no tourists in churches; only priests.
The Bois de Boulogne’s full of wild beasts.
They’ve shuttered the Louvre and closed department stores.
The Porte de Clignancourt has lost its whores.
Boulangeries use dried, pre-packaged yeast.
They’ve burned the last copies of A Moveable Feast,
drawn the shutters and locked the courtyard doors.
A bateau mouche without a captain’s run
aground against the Île de la cité;
the willows in the Square du Vert-Galant all weep
with joy to see an unencumbered Seine
now swell with fish and swans. Each Paris-gray
morning quiet and slow as a dreamless sleep.

Pilgrim’s Progressivism

Art, Books and Literature, Culture, Economy, Justice, Media, Plus ça change motherfuckers, Poetry, Religion, The Life of the Mind, Uncategorized

The leaks are real. The news is fake. The sky
is blue. Love always lasts. The dead return
to life at night. The fire will not burn
the true believer’s flesh. The pig can fly.
Use whiskey when a teething baby cries.
No matter what good wages workers earn
they can no longer save enough; they yearn
only for the slightest ease, which we deny
them, spouting instead our stupid incantations:
be enterprising; learn new skills; a man
no longer works to live, he loves his work
and works unto his soul’s attenuation;
pays tax to keep the drones in distant lands;
becomes, faute de mieux, at last, a jerk.