found scribble #13

i always–when waking–
find myself to be in strange
and different places the
thingummy along different lines
than these otherwise calico
and maddening thrusts of
colour cascadeling
sideways through my
eye sockets. the red glare
these days of a thousand
rubbing nights when
pale sheets cling hungrily
to legs and flesh and the
whole body-body is coated
with am as it were, filmy
sheen of sweat or perspiration
or as it were dampness
and so these bedclothes–
so to speak–become
twisted in the knotted heat
and belaboured dreams that
beat at the heart of
my nightly nights

the trouble with Rumsfeld

I don’t really want to quote any of this out of context, because it’s so easy to do, thereby creating an entirely different meaning.

Rumsfeld is very scary to me; his affect is so commonsensical; scarily intelligent. It gets me every time. I find it difficult not to respect, even though I’m otherwise inclined to dislike the man. His hands are too dirty re: the Middle East. (He was Special Presidential Envoy to the Middle East in 1983-84. Not a good time for me to trust anyone hanging out in the Middle East.)

organ grinding ides: display the purple flag, keep waving it, cha

arrr! matey! keep yer cards close to your chest and speak your thousands of words through pictures

and

soap and whiskey, eh. sipping champagne and reading bits of jobbala. the wicked make me toes squirm, that they do. funny, the richy proking loudly in the temple, while the poor woman drops her ducat in the box…