Hooray For Our Chains (31)

"It's September 11th all over again except we didn't have the collapsing buildings"

Eric Cantor came to this world in a cracked pipkin and said, "The Mortar at least is mine." And in this Mortar he mixes, and titrates with Glenn Beck's pestle, some of his fantasy and insight.

If I say the glass is shattered, if these be of putridenous mixture, if the contents are excellent and my water bowl on the kitchen floor is cracked, then the ooze won't smell of ambergris and musk.

"I can conceive of a power," Eric Cantor says, "which can create a beautiful parti-colored sunflower from the 2,074-page 'Affordable Health Care for America Act' that is being shoved down the throat of Americans who want to start over from a clean sheet of paper and take a step-by-step approach without rationing care or empowering government bureaucrats at the expense of patients and doctors. It shall be yours if you come. It's the best cell in the hermitage."

Glenn Beck struck the window in a downward direction, landing on the floor about a foot from the Wastebasket Enemy Combatant. "It's September 11 all over again except we didn't have the collapsing buildings," he said. "We need God more than ever.

Eric Cantor measured the kleptomaniac Sarah Palin's ankle. In recognition of his favor, she made a plush tobacco bag on which the name "Eric Cantor" was worked in gold threads, and sent it to him wrapped in a silk handkerchief.

"I do not confess in private," Eric Cantor said, "and cannot sleep within doors. I offered one of these wafers to my donkey and he would not eat it. I felt insulted, and never after did I pilfer a wafer."

The boys in the congregation tittered gleefully. John Boehner descended into the vineyard with dried figs in a blue kerchief. He walked among the crowd. He peeped every fortnight into the village to keep up, at least, his practice of human speech.

This larva is a flickering taper under a bushel. In the corner, three petroleum cans containing provisions. Nearby, an old pair of shoes in which are stuck a few candles, a handful of figs, and a pinch of incense which John Boehner gives us as a token of his love and blessing.

The Lavender is Melting Into the Heliotrope, the Constellations are Dying Out

I am waygone, Mayakovsky Tree. Snow birds are passing by. I can't forgive the luring rill.

We could not prevent Glenn Beck from receiving Eric Massa in bed as he would a tedious guest at afternoon tea.

A glint in a giant eye, a skidding cloud, a glob of lime. Glenn Beck moves a flipper and swims onward through the void, varying with the librations of the moon.

Now I must either retrace my steps or cross the gorge with my fur cap, shoe strings, and my little skiff -- the heavens under which domes and turrets and minarets arise.

Glenn Beck's flourishing and odoriferous power and glory will make the body cleaner, healthier, stronger, happier, trenchant, impregnable, narrow, and mean.

So there we are, Mayakovsky Tree, seeming and simulating on our way back to the kitchen from the living room window sill. A squirrel tickles your bole until you can't breathe and four guys jump on top of you.

Glenn Beck, the tedious rosary simpleton, claims he doesn't know anything about tickle fights in the Navy. But often in his wanderings and divagations, Glenn Beck gives us fresh proof that no two opposing elements meet and fuse without working themselves up to sweaty ecstasies of gain.

The ochre veins of the lime cliffs are now perceptible. This hardly secures for them flowers and lentils the year round. Mayakovsky Tree, the trees in the distance seem like rain clouds. Welcome to my mulberry sticks, my dried pine needles -- your monks ogling on the pine roof of the abbey.

Hooray For Our Chains (30)

Liz Cheney Obsecrating, Beating the Shepherd and the Tinkling Bell of His Wether

Liz Cheney furrows her cheeks and rubs her black eyes of their luster and spark. I am greeted by the bleat of the sheep and the low of the kine. Such wild and simple joy, applauding the peptic host and toastmaster in the most sequestered, the most dreary, place I have yet seen.

Liz Cheney boils cabbage and heaps it on a plate over a slice of corn-beef. Liz Cheney issues allocutions and pamphlets.

Tony West, Joseph Guerra, Beth Brinkmann, Jonathan Cedarbaum, Eric Columbus, Tali Farhadian, Karl Thompson, Neal Katyal, and Jennifer Daskal deliquesce in grief, feeding the trees and herbiage with their dust.

Hence, Liz Cheney's suspicious growth, her luster and lustiness, her allocutions and pamphlets. What a contrast between Liz Cheney and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I cannot believe that to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand.

I smell larvae and cocoons. Liz Cheney hates the mulberry; she hates the worms, though they be the silk-making kind.

In the empty wicker newspaper basket under the bed, Liz Cheney, you will find a few back issues of the New Yorker, a postcard album, and a gramophone! Nowhere else can the vinter buy a dolium for his vine, or the priest a pipkin for his oil.

Sarah Palin Reads a Eulogium of Her Own Composition, For Which She Receives a Silver Medal

But all that is really happening is that Sarah Palin is displaying and reproducing herself at a higher level of intensity. What is presented as true life turns out to be merely a more truly spectacular life.

The miserable God resists her skill and physic. I clap one paw upon the other and compose a threnody, raptures with a little local coloring. Something is snoring in the radiator, groaning under the incubus of Roger Ailes.

Sarah Palin is showing the Mayakovsky Tree how glass is made, how colors are extracted from pigments, how to measure and count, and how to communicate human thought.

Roger Ailes drops the nargileh tube from his hand and dozes on the divan beneath the window that opens onto Greenview Avenue. The entire consumable time of Roger Ailes eventually is treated as raw material for various new products put on the market as socially controlled uses of time.

I know nothing about gold mines and syndicates. Sarah Palin, hearing the parley without, growls behind the scene and orders Roger Ailes gruffly to the court -- through a dark, stivy arcade on both sides of which are dark, stivy cells used as stables.

This, while she draws from the nargileh the smoke I cannot relish. She blows the nargileh smoke in Roger Ailes's face, a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of those who desire that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores with honey, fig-jam, and green olives: the reality of time has been replaced by the publicity of time.

Late in the evening, after she relates the length of Roger Ailes's sorrows, three mattresses (all she had) are laid on the straw mat near each other, with three pointed arches in the facade and a gable of pink tiles (but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of architecture). She is exclusively dominated by leisure time and vacations -- moments portrayed, like all spectacular commodities, at a distance and as desirable by definition. Moments explicitly presented as moments in Sarah Palin's real life, whose cyclical return we are supposed to look forward to.