In the House of the Hangman 1127

So this is a close approximation of what the precursor to jazz sounded like in the late 19th Century, bringing to mind Lorca's meditation in that same lecture: “The dark and quivering duende that I am talking about is a descendant of the merry daemon of Socrates, all marble and salt, who angrily scratched his master on the day he drank hemlock, a descendent also of Descartes’ melancholy daemon, small as a great almond, who, tired of lines and circles, went out along the canals to hear the drunken sailors sing.” I think of all those photos in “The Beautiful Blackboards at Quantum Physics Labs.” My mother, trying to tell me about her childhood in Port-au-Prince, never sure if she was French, Syrian or Haitian, and light enough not to thing of herself as black, always returned [in her stories] to the nuns at Sacré-Coeur: They never told us about the slave trade. I did not know about that. In the beginning, they said, there were some little light pygmies that were here. And they grew bigger and darker. I always wondered how they got so big and so black so fast. Ding Village is a township falling into decay, people drop dead everyday from the “fever.” HIV/AIDS has contaminated over half of the population, which has engaged in blood selling to raise money to develop the local economy and bring its residents out of poverty. Corrupt blood brokers, or blood heads, arise to compete with government blood banks, reusing needles and dirty cotton balls on young and old, men and women, alike. The Ding family is at the center of this – Ding Hui is a local blood head who has made his family rich on the backs of his neighbors; his 12 year-old son is murdered (poisoned by locals) as retribution for the many villagers that Ding Hui infected with disease, his brother is dying of AIDS, his mother died of exposure to hepatitis-contaminated blood, and his father, the unofficial town leader is begging Ding Hui to ask the town for forgiveness. Some energy will still come from the ocean surface, but some will now come from the pole-to-equator temperature contrast. This new energy source will enable Sandy to maintain its intensity, or maybe even increase it. This process is called ‘extratropical transition.’ It poses a lot of problems for forecasters. In the first place, the computer models aren’t that great at predicting exactly when it will happen. So predictions of intensity are uncertain, as the tropical cyclone may weaken before transition and then strengthen afterwards. On the flip side, printed in blue ink, is a poem entitled, Backbergia Militaris. It goes like this:

when the Borgias set out to do
in ever their closest
loved ones, with bullets
or Broadway shows, the deck
was stacked – this grayish
columnar head knows better

the terminal, dome-like cephalium
of orange-brown bristles
at the thought of anything less
than total self-destruct, controls
one half by blowing off limbs
in random cow fields

the little papery flower
contains a spoonful of curds
dried-up mother's milk
in a field of blasted spines

Mexico (Michoacán)

The poem is unsigned, but I am pretty sure that Jonathan Skinner wrote it, given his friendship with Michael Kelleher and his longstanding preoccupation with all things cactical. Then oh the Ann Coulter, bought by ® arrangement, with victory and assessment. Toggle switch of the amenities, and dying to deliver dying. The sweeping wet throb of pocked political unproven smears desperate changes in locked language. Swerve to emote, Ann Coulter. Let us explain your thinking in words of sensitively vacant syllables. A syllable is the part of the word that whistles. You lack syllables Ann of the forecast for rain in your ass. When you reached better, as others struggled, the world said, you are a better Ann Coulter than Ann Coulter, the smudge of some craven distinction.

[Note: Sources: Ian Keenan, “In 1996 the Rotterdam Conservatory …”, at Piri’ Miri Muli’, 27 Oct 012; JBR; Megan Garber, “The Beautiful Blackboards at Quantum Physics Labs”, at The Atlantic, 26 Oct 012 (re a project by Alejandro Guijarro); Joan Dayan, Haiti, History, and the Gods; Shin Yu Pai, Goodreads comment on Yian Lianke, Dream of Ding Village; Climate Central, as quoted in Brian Merchant, “HUMANS BUILT A FRANKENSTORM FACTORY, AND NOW WE'VE GOT TO LIVE IN IT”, at Vice, 27 Oct 012; Michael Kelleher, “Aimless Reading: The W’s, Part 4.3 (Rosmarie Waldrop)”, at Pearlblossom Highway, 27 Oct 012; Allen Bramhall, “Judge Not Lest You Be Ann Coulter”, at Simple Theories, 27 Oct 012]

Comments

[Ed Baker]

the

"syllable is the part of the word that whistles."

I REALLY like that
and,
leh-me-tell-yugh:

I seldom like anything that I don't write !

[john]

Every so often something good comes along ...

Stay dry, Ed. Or have fun in the BIG WIND.

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