Sometimes, in Desperation, He'd Look Toward a Mannequin or a Window Dresser with a Penchant for Parsing

Andy Kaufman was born 65 years ago today. Rest in peace, Mae Young. I fully confess the manic twice a day postings are 97/100ths an attention-slut's desperation to make up for lost pings now that I don't yodel motherfucking this motherfucking that like I used to at peak ping. Why I think putting out more of what those who visited for the motherfuckering don't want will increase pings falls under rules of self-fulfilling prophecy and its satisfying negative rewards. 1/100th is the freedom of the new template, the escape from the green prison, another 1/100th is simply fuck you fuck me fuck this, but the last 1/100th is that I'm finding myself desperately, frighteningly angry at

• for instance, frighteningly enraged, finding myself desperately sad, alarmingly crazed, I thought not motherfuckering would help but it doesn't, I find myself thinking of what the fuck actions I can take and then recognizing their futility (like the ineffectual futility of posting twice a day) had I the guts to enact them, find myself imagining the world my daughter will need survive when she's my age in 2047...
• I stopped paying attention to professional wrestling once the motherfucking McMahon's won, and fine metaphors abound.
• Onism.
• How do you see yourself?
• The ambient special you didn't ask for.
• A review of Obama's spy speech before Obama's spy speech.
• Just because I don't motherfuckering as much doesn't mean I won't link to others motherfuckering, though admittedly, by design, there's less and less of that too.
• Radical notions: on creating the enemy one seeks.
• Living with power.
• Joseph Conrad's An Anarchist.
• Anxiety and writing.
• On the above.
• Counting and telling. More stuff that makes me wish I'd been born a linguist.
• What Earthgirl and me are doing February 22nd, anyone wanna go? dinner before at the great Hillandale Indian joint? or maybe down to Tiffin or Udupi in Langley Park? Email me by Sunday, I'm buying tickets Monday, I'll buy your ticket, you buy us dinner.
• Kenneth Koch, for those of you who do.
• Margaret Drabble, for those of you who do (like Earthgirl).
• I've read 17 of the 25, tried the Johnson and failed and probably won't try again, tried Proust and failed and may or not try again, tried the Levin and will try again, and I've never heard of Miss MacIntosh, My Darling.
• A related phenomenon to the change in blooger readership has been the change in twooter readership since I've stopped motherfuckering as much there, watching those who followed for the motherfuckering drop away, seeing those who actually like the music and poetry join up. Thanks!
• Lunch Poem.
• Prunella's latest playlist.
• My current favorite obsession:

IN LOVE, HIS GRAMMAR GREW

Stephen Dunn

In love, his grammar grew

rich with intensifiers, and adverbs fell

madly from the sky like pheasants

for the peasantry, and he, as sated

as they were, lolled under shade trees

until roused by moonlight

and the beautiful fraternal twins

and and but. Oh that was when

he knew he couldn’t resist

a conjunction of any kind.

One said accumulate, the other

was a doubter who loved the wind

and the mind that cleans up after it.

                                           For love

he wanted to break all the rules,

light a candle behind a sentence

named Sheila, always running on

and wishing to be stopped

by the hard button of a period.

Sometimes, in desperation, he’d look

toward a mannequin or a window dresser

with a penchant for parsing.

But mostly he wanted you, Sheila,

and the adjectives that could precede

and change you: bluesy, fly-by-night,

queen of all that is and might be.