Life and War with Mikey Fatboy Delgado
Monday, October 09, 2017
excerpted from: Borges makes sense of Trump


excerpted from Borges makes sense of Trump
(The Collected Fiction of Jorge Luis Borges / reviewed unread by Kemoe Hopscotch)

When the circus came to town when we were kids, we wondered how they got the posters
advertising the circus onto the inside of the front windows and onto the inside of the glass
doors of the abandoned shops and the closed-down shops and the repossessed shops and the
bankrupt shops and every other empty shop in town.

All the mail and the flyers that had been delivered to the shops since they’d failed and closed
was still littering the floor. No footsteps could be seen in the dust that had accumulated on the
floors since the closures, but someone had somehow managed to get in and put these posters
up on the other side of the glass. We had a strange guy who used to hang around with us who
even then at that age had plenty of theories that he presented as fact. He said there was a circus
man who could float through keyholes. That was how it was done. He said the guy was called
The Wisp. Many years later I remembered, apropos of nothing, in the midst of a day, that that
kid’s home had three or four paintings by Chagall on the walls of different rooms.

Another kid I knew, a kid who in later life became fond of repeating that all that is solid melts
into air
, disagreed. He said that the explanation was simpler, the explanation was that the circus
could get in anywhere it damn well liked when it came to town with its horses and horseshit, its
cages of drugged animals, its poisonous warmed-over interval snacks, its fat ladies and
bearded ladies, its clowns, its dwarfs, its colours and flags, its bully boys who stop you getting
in without a ticket, its man who tells big lies about the greatest show on earth and its woman
who tells big lies about the greatest show on earth. I wish I could tell you that on the walls
of his house there was some of Edward Hopper’s stuff. I don’t know though. I think I would
have remembered, even from then.


Friday, June 23, 2017
A bird, suddenly

The double glass reflects sky.
I expect you thought you'd fly
right through it, thinking to enter
the tunnel of the convex mirrored cloud
and blueness on the back wall.
When I describe you to myself,
to try to know that the world
hasn't yet sickened enough
to make all birds yearn to self destruct
through things that we've allowed,
I am describing you to myself
to try to soothe the sudden terror
in me. I say it became momentarily dark
and I thought a grey sack had been hurled
against the window with the force
of a spurned god. You were a sack of sorts,
a beautiful feathered case of expectations,
a cold bomb detonating against the glass.
Decentered and trembling, seeing
the glory of you with your stilled beauty
drained of all its motivation, broken
outside the window beneath the green canopy
of coreopsis, what could a coward do
but reach for the keyboard as a shield?
Monday, June 19, 2017
"Spring has arrived in Western Galilee..."

Today it was, and a young man arriving
as the last snow of the year melted
woke me from sleep, asking
- pointing to a line on the map,
to the line between us and them -
Am I in the right place? Is it here
that we come to face our enemies?

Spring plants were on the table and the room
was beautified by the day’s air. It smelt
nothing like the cologne we sprayed in the tank
after we cleaned the last of the dead man from it.
The young man, the new replacement, stood
at the open window looking north and spoke
about how beautiful Lebanon looks from here.

And the sky, he said, goes from the left edge
of the world right across to the right edge,
and where it is white it is whiter
than I have ever seen.
As we listened
to the radio crackle of a patrol
trapped by fedayeen to the north of here
he wrapped himself between the fringes
of his prayer shawl and prayed to his god.
I sat at the window and breathed the Spring air.
Listening to the bells of unshepherded goats
I opened these pages and wrote this letter.


Saturday, June 10, 2017
diary (3)

And dadda’s sat there all through results night, tired in his chair,
and he says the sun went down and the sun came up and like in
that song the youth have bubbled up, just like a 7-up, and we
have brought dadda a red plant to put somewhere he can see it.
The posturing hag on the silenced screen is making noises.
Just noises. She is going to need new friends from the asylum
who understand noises they can’t hear. She can talk to them.
Dadda says he loves the red plant. It’s a plant I can be proud of,
he says. The first time for a long time. The posturing hag sent
someone to the door a few days ago with blue flowers for him
but dadda doesn’t care for cut flowers. He will only have plants
in the house, not cut flowers. He used to be a gardener and he
always says that in the end he couldn’t take the killing. He couldn’t
take the filling of orders for flowers. He didn’t like to watch them
cut and dying and rotting in vases of fetid water. Blue flowers in
such a vase are a perversion of aesthetics, says dadda, as if
suffocation and putrefaction might ever beautify a room. The job
made him think – he couldn’t say why – of Treblinka. Do you
, he says, when you were children, and we would go to the
woods, and we would go to the woods as friends of whatever was
. We remember. We didn’t kill flowers to take them home to
learn their names. We’d bring a small book and head for the silver
birches by the sandy river and dadda used to say if we find your
name here we shall know you by it and if we don’t we will still call
you something in our dreams until we know better
. And once when
we were old enough we debated what to call a red mushroom in a
language of our own.

Thursday, June 08, 2017
diary (2)

"citizen of the world, citizen of nowhere"

The subservient English troop off to wield the pencil in favour
of the thieves transferring the common wealth into their tax havens
and business schemes, muttering to their wives and husbands and
neighbours and to themselves the received infantile wisdoms that
they've gleaned from the broadsheets and tabloids of the billionaires.
The state broadcaster hides behind the thick black curtain and reports
what it can see from there. The grimacing hag dances on the blood
by the river. Children are herded into the crumbling classrooms of
their respective superstitions, giving the lie to the paean to shared values.

Wednesday, June 07, 2017

"my pitch is very simple"

The rubber-faced hag slugs up to the microphone and on another screen
a cartoon buffoon, an oily functionary straight from a sinister cloud in
trousers, earnestly tells lies to the faces of the hopeful youth, and on the
streets everywhere disaffection runs amok in kind or solicitous or murderous
ways, and snake oil is poured into wounds, and a beautiful girl is piped home
to her rest, and on every bridge the estuary breeze chills the blood, and in
our hearts resigned sobs, and all we find to savour are the anxieties our
ambitions stir in their fuckpads in the tax havens in the warm dead seas of
their doomed and corrupted world.

Monday, May 15, 2017
The Standard
The readers of the Boston Evening Transcript
Sway in the wind like a field of ripe corn
. - TS Eliot

Lucky them. My daughter’s madeleine
will be the smell of fine dust in the long tunnels,
and the perching seats in the bright carriages
where readers of newspapers stumble
like thrown sheep as the brakes are applied
in a flourish of stopping, and the train slows
into the thin tube of yellow platform light.

The doors slide and people tumble like bruised fruit
from burst boxes. Others take their places,
bewildered and dumb, done with duty, sleepwalking
to their stables and pens and batteries.
Cables are pulling us to pay-day,
to the early darkness of the suburbs,
to the dormitories above the paved over fields.


from Last Night's Dream Corrected

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