When I was in the late single-digits—sometime during third grade—I developed an intense fear of choking. We had brought home some excellent sandwiches from Carrs’ deli and I was really excited to eat, because at that point I loved plain turkey with shredded lettuce and mayo and black pepper on white or wheat bread, and Carrs’ deli made excellent turkey with shredded lettuce and mayo with black pepper on white or wheat bread. And I remember taking a bite and just not knowing what to do. Where does it go? What do I do with it? Where do I put my tongue, how do I push the food back? What if I do it wrong, and I choke? Was I choking? How could I tell I was choking?
an important poem
- I know why poor whites chant trump trump trump The author connects her experience working in a shitty bar in Arkansas and living in a trailer park to today’s politics, and outlines the history of American wealth inequality from slavery to the civil rights era to Bush. I learned that many of the descendants of white indentured servants ended up in Appalachia, and also that a bunch of people camped out on the Washington lawn after King’s assassination in order to draw attention to ending poverty. It’s timely, in the wake of the reporting on the Panama papers, to revisit the history of how wealthy people in their bid to stay on top (or just plain greed) shaped the lives of millions of people. Was that sentence structured strangely? I’m rereading that last sentence and it was structured strangely. Maybe? Anyways side note where does the impulse to blame poor people and foreigners for problems come from?????
- TARANTA epic drums/violin/choral/guitar jam from southern Italy made by a generation band and a composer
- The Ballad of George Collins ballad with funky beat and a trippy modern dance video. the singer, sam lee, is an english folk singer who travels around to roma and ‘travellers’ communities to learn their songs, and then arranges them with modern and international instrumentation. has a background in burlesque and wilderness survival. probably a druid. read the article about him in the guardian. also check out his song blackbird
- Stye albanian spooky poem set to sparse accompaniment of piano, drums and voice
- All Star but everyone is playing at different tempos why would someone make this
when you wake up hungover and want to write about destiny:
every word, so slow to come, is destiny to say
nothing can be unsaid until you scrap out the worst
parts but stop the cart keep rolling,
the only form, sounded out by tenzing the throat-singer, can
be a starstretched poem emptied out pouring quiet:
whether it’s good or bad it’s still your destiny and you’re still hungover.
go and find.
If you could not see me for seven years more
would you pop off facebook and leave me alone
would I have to seek you in the sage hollow fair
or would you just text me later
confront the ugly-faced gremlin who says everything you do is stupid
and wave your genitals at him in the crudest way
A half-eaten greyfut
it wasn’t very good
but then again, what did you expect? a grapefruit?
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Our first day in Bulgaristan we took the night bus up from Istanbul. It took us four visits and one phone call (conducted on our behalf a native speaker, no less) to make reservations with the bus company, find out the reservations had disappeared, figure out where they were picking us up, and pay for the …
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As part of our weekend trip to Bulgaria (for visa renewal purposes), we stopped by an abandoned parliamentary building of the old communist days built atop a mountain. “The profits from Bulgaria for an entire year went into building this,” our guide and driver Velin told us. It had snowed the day before, and while …