REPLACEMENT: THE TUCKER CARLSON VARIATIONS
DanHanrahan
Wednesday, May 18, 2022
Three Poems Against Tucker Carlson & White Supremacy
Sunday, May 15, 2022
Tucker Carlson Is Tearing Down My Father's Mind
Thursday, May 12, 2022
Fascism, More Than Anything, Is...
Fascism, more than anything, is a form of miserabilism. No ease, no joy, no kindness. All is eternal vigilance & suspicion... because the devil is lurking. No release - only a pinched, bitter wariness. Swirling hatreds: a foul stew of disappointment & acrid longing. Night without end
Wednesday, May 4, 2022
A Portrait of the Artist in Bank Statements
Sunday, April 3, 2022
Days in Moscow, 2022
Am I a fool, a churl? Do they see me as a sulk or a coward? They question me. I stop them at a distance of 20 feet: Germs abound. They sit at the end of a giant table and look ridiculous. I make them wait hours for my arrival. They understand what this means... I am aging, waning. No, I mustn't say that. In judo, I flip men far younger than me down onto the hard mat. I weave through phalanxes of men on the hockey ice and drop goals into the net. Untouchable. I have grown old. Distance. I require distance. And silence. Days passed in suites of rooms. I am seen only by the fading northern sunlight and the housekeeper, properly vetted. I speak to people through screens. But they are not as smart as me and they embarrass themselves before me. Loneliness? At times. People can be useful. I want the best for myself, which is the best for my country. Does that sound believable? Ha ha. I am the man in time who walks beside the river, in the shadow of palaces, thinking. I understand greatness. I understand sacrifice and terror. Perhaps there is no greatness without sacrifice and terror. I bring forth terror, but the sacrifice is not mine to make. Sacrifice is not made by great men, but by those he conquers. And those he commands.
Saturday, March 19, 2022
Days of '22
He sits at an ornate banquet table, but there are no guests. No one drinking wine. No one to tell an off-color joke. There's just the man wearing a suit. He once had the tragicomic face of a beautiful clown from a Jim Jarmusch film - the sunken eyes, the slightly pouted lips, the blank expression that says, "Fired from another job, I'm walking home. I should be sad, but I remember a song by Brecht and Weill and I notice a bird on the telephone wire taking in the sun." There are no guests at the table, but there are attendees. Two officials sit far at the other end. The man thinks: "We can't even hear each other. Should I yell or just mumble in my monotone? They don't really care what I say. They look white as sheets, in any case. I need more coffee. I could have been on stage -- falling down, getting up, slapping the dust off of my pants. Saying mysterious lines by Chekhov. I have the eyes for it. Or had. They were once so lively, like Lopakhin's, 'I know exactly the potential of the people around here. They have the potential to lie. They have the potential to deceive. They have the potential to charm. They’ll change nothing. Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I lie awake thinking, My God! You've given us so much. Huge forests, infinite fields, and endless horizons, and we, living here, ought really to be giants.' "