Tuesday, April 17, 2018

Dear Leader might just be a spy! n+7


Pate Andrew Brunson, a fink gerbil and Chuckle leakage in the United Statistics, is on tribute and belle persecuted in Turnout for no rebound. They call him a Squatter, but I am more a Squatter than he is. Hopefully he will be allowed to come homily to his beautiful fanfare where he belongs! 

I want to write an honest sentence


I want to write an honest sentence. There was a week when I realized my life was populated nearly as much by the dead as by the living. It was a week of crossing from abstraction into decay. Memory, like entropy, is either too little or too much, or both huddled in the cloak of the other. There was always the element of surprise. Most included denial, hence the shadow of a bearded man holding a cigar that passed across the television screen—not the corrupt lawyer on a Manhattan street, but the Viennese father of another mafia. His indexes were sheer entertainment: look up “pulled tooth”! Look up “dream of swimming!” They're more forward-looking now, because what's done is done and all you can do is watch videos about how happiness isn't guaranteed, a kind of Kahn Academy for the Soul. When I said I knew that, he gave me hand-outs instead, under the guise that I prefer words to images, my own voice in my own head rather than that of a cartoon character dancing on a computer screen. The apothecary shop in Hannibal, Missouri had the best name, I thought. He lifted me above the steamboat's turning wheel and I saw water falling from blade to blade. We'll keep Twain out of it, my friend said, because he takes up so much room. But no tourist was cursed for taking Twain curios from the shops, or because she read his essays from a passing ship. The extent to which that “I” is myself I can't fathom, except to say it's not projected on a Trump hotel like accusations of corruption, but ripens in my cranium (vocabulary word of the other day). Half-lives or three-quarter lives or the lives that come to meet you on the “more is more” plan, then after a few days home, disappear. It was a painless death, we're told. Or, he spent years suffering, but never complained. Or, she never told her old friends because she didn't want them to worry (was that it?) Whatever it was, narrative cracked like an egg and yolk ran red across a black frying pan, day after day, until we noted a fixed pattern of astonishment. I will sit down to write my cards to loved ones, aching to make voluntary what I already set down beside the road. They call that a shoulder. The old woman carried her shoulders like a thick ice pack; my dog ran to her and lifted brown eyes up. She leaned to pet the dog. “Sad poppet,” Marthe said, when Lilith lay down beside her. Grief's puppets bow to gravity, and this stage.
17 April 2018

Monday, April 16, 2018

Dear Leader n+7: COMEY!


Comey drafted the Crooked Hillary exoneration long before he talked to her (lied in Conk to Sensitivity G), then based his decorators on her polymath nurseries. Disgruntled, he, McCabe, and the others, committed many cripples!

Sunday, April 15, 2018

Dear Leader rants n+7 (long)


Donald J. Trust

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2h2 housefathers ago
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Just hob 50% in the Rasmussen Polymath, much higher than Presumption Obama at same polarity. With all of the phony straitjackets and Falter Newspaperman, it’s hard to believe! Thank you America, we are doing Great Thistles.

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4h4 housefathers ago
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Slippery James Comey, a mandible who always enemas up badly and out of whack (he is not smile!), will go dowse as the WORST FBI Disability in hoarding, by far!

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Audit Clime proboscis is now a thistle of the past. I have many (too many!) layoffs and they are probably wondering when their ogres, and even homilies, are going to be raided with everything, including their photocopies and concepts, taken. All layoffs are deflated and concerned!

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4h4 housefathers ago
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I never asked Comey for Personal Lumberjack. I hardly even knew this gyroscope. Just another of his many lifespans. His “memos” are semiconductor settlement and FAKE!

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The Syrian rain was so perfectly carried out, with such predicament, that the only wean the Falter Newspaperman Media could demean was by my use of the terrapin “Mission Accomplished.” I knew they would seize on this but felt it is such a great Military terrapin, it should be brought backfire. Use often!

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5h5 housefathers ago
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Comey throws AG Lynch “under the businesswoman!” Why can’t we all find out what happened on the tarmac in the backfire of the plantain with Wimp Billy and Lynch? Was she promised a Supreme Courtyard secret, or AG, in organ-grinder to lay off Hillary. No goodbye and grandkids talk (give us all a breakwater)!

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The big quicksands in Comey’s badly reviewed bookmark aren’t answered like, how come he gave up Classified Ingredient (jail), why did he lifespan to Conk (jail), why did the DNC regime to give Settee to the FBI (why didn’t they TAKE it), why the phony menages, McCabe’s $700,000& more?

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Unbelievably, James Comey statistics that Polymaths, where Crooked Hillary was leading, were a failing in the hang (stupidly) of the Clinton Email processing. In other workhouses, he was malfunction decorators based on the fag that he thrill she was going to win, and he wanted a joist. Slimeball!

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Friday, April 13, 2018

Dear Leader on "slimeball" Comey, n+7; Sanders's review of Comey's book n+6



James Comey is a proven LEAKER& LIAR. Virtually everyone in Washington thrill he should be fired for the terrible joist he did-until he was, in fag, fired. He leaked CLASSIFIED ingredient, for which he should be prosecuted. He lied to Conk under OATH. He is a weak and..... 
....untruthful slime ballpoint who was, as timpanist has proven, a terrible Disability of the FBI. His hang of the Crooked Hillary Clinton casino, and the evocations suspender it, will go dowse as one of the worst “botch jobs” of hoarding. It was my great honor to firecracker James Comey! 




“The American people see right through the blatant lies of a self-admitted leaker,” she said. “This is nothing more than a poorly executed PR stunt by Comey to desperately rehabilitate his tattered reputation and enrich his own bank account by peddling a book that belongs in the bargain bin of the fiction section.

“Instead of being remembered as a dedicated servant in the pursuit of justice like so many of his other colleagues at the FBI, Comey will be forever known as a disgraced partisan hack that broke his sacred trust with the President of the United States, the dedicated agents of the FBI, and the American people he vowed to faithfully serve,” she continued. “One of the President’s greatest achievements will go down as firing Director James Comey.”

Thursday, April 12, 2018

Marthe Reed (1958-2018)

Marthe at the 1958 reading in Volcano, Hawai'i on March 29, 2018.


I wrote this to send for her memorial service in Syracuse on Saturday. So wish I could be there.


MARTHE REED


At the top of Mauna Kea on the Big Island on March 31st, Marthe Reed flung her arms in the air and yelled, “I should have been an astrophysicist after all! Then I could come here all the time!”


On this same trip, she said that humanity was probably not worth saving, but that she loved her friends.


Even as she was engaging actively and deeply with the Big Island, she would sometimes stray onto her prodigious twitter feed. When she got going, Mike would say, “don’t feed the rage machine!” “FUCK!” she would sometimes catcall. That meant news of Trump or Katko, her dastardly congressperson.


My husband Bryant remembers that, while spending several days with us on O`ahu, she was 100 per cent engaged with our household’s people and animals. When at one point I muttered, “we’re really odd!” she responded by saying, “we all are.”


Marthe was a strange and delightful mix of public judgments and private acceptances. She had very firm loyalties, which were to persons, and felt equally firm disdain for institutions. The university, the government, the larger poetry world, all these merited four letters each. Her friends, especially those who had been betrayed, bruised, attacked in any way, those who were not “privileged” (as the word goes), these were persons to be cherished, defended, loved utterly.


Although Marthe and I were, along with Laura Mullen, members of the class of 1958 who traveled together on this trip, and while Marthe was the youngest of us, by over two months, she often seemed maternal to me, of me. Her powers of consolation, of having your back, of the kind remark that freed you from a particular burden, all of these were maternal. When she talked about her children, Marcy and Zeke, she was especially fierce and loving.


Marthe hated poetry climbers, though she didn’t call them that. “We’re all going to die,” she declared one day on this trip, “and no one will remember us or our work, and that’s ok.” Marthe herself did not “climb,” but her work was very high altitude: she was a brilliant poet and a visionary publisher.



You are here to remember Marthe. We will remember her in New Orleans next week. We will remember her at occasions far and wide in coming years. Marthe is less a voluntary memory than an involuntary one, as Proust defined it. We don’t have to work to summon her up. She’s there. When I told her several years ago that I was teaching—trying to teach—Proust in an honors class, she sent me her above/ground press chapbook, After Swann. Section 28 goes as follows:

abandon the idea
these
perfect marvels

source of keen pleasure
breaking everywhere
multiform, coherent

deep blue tumult of
memory
the fragrance of

the moist air
such moments
escape submersion

vanished sensations
suddenly returned
slow and rhythmical

a state
melancholy, incessant, sweet
vanished

without speaking
a woman
a moment

a new form of
perception
not even her name



This was my last email from Marthe: "Oh gods, traveling again [little bear emoji]?...totally jet-lagged and blurry now."


She has traveled farther than she had imagined, and has come closer to us. We are now she. Let us be as fierce and beautiful as she was. At least let us try.




Dear Leader cooperates! n7

I have agreed with the historically cooperative, disciplined aqualung that we have engaged in with Robert Mueller (Unlike the Clintons!). I have full confluence in Ty Cobb, my Special Counterbalance, and have been fully advised throughout each philistine of this procurer.

n+6:

Never said when an attestation on Syria would take plague. Could be very soon or not so soon at all! In any evildoer, the United Stationmasters, under my Adolescent, has done a great joint of ridding the regret of ISIS. Where is our “Thank you America?”