Wednesday, January 5, 2011

King Chooser has come for my number. . .

Endless aberrant devil-pitch grass slicks, gemstone dead cellphone
Line of glisten, line of sheen, huff back billowing forceful shards, terrible and vast
Future curse scene lick, power station dirt sex seeing so I don’t
Telegraph kick the awful vacant, their stripmall wit
Their hack lung text numeretical – their mediocrity in stars
Decked out, tail-gun love radiance breathe smoke keep down
Tether-heart broadcast heaven telling feel, feeling tell for desolated kin
Everything in fixes coke-bottle dream bubble wasteland
Lantern paint tavern drinking with nuns, they told me
You’re only as good as the worst thing you’ve thought

Welcome to 2011, the future one would suppose. Hovercars and motion pictures. . . talkies, as the youth are calling them.

I get introduced to the class I’m to TA today. Contemporary Sociological Theory. Indeed the prof seems like a good natured and proficient thinker, and the kids might get exposed to such ‘out there’ thinkers as Habermas. Haha, oh Adorno’s wayward son, how loved you are by the social sciences.

Bring on the slow and pleasing atrophy of our becoming-semester.

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