So yesterday at lunch Fiona, whose Kid's Lit class sixteen years ago (I know this precisely because Planet sat in Fiona's lap in her office on Planet's second birthday that semester), after I'd a semester of dismal adult Liberal Studies classes the semester before, changed my mind about dropping out of the program, and who has remained a close friend and dear confidant (and whose advocacy helped me secure scholarships in the English Department for the subsequent MA), told me she has bladder cancer, it's metastisized beyond control, she's a year at most to live.
Canary, weathervane, Cassandra, fool, I feel like I've been cheated out of middle age; I played at being young at 49 when my knees didn't ache, I feel like I'm old at 51 now that they do.
- Stupor Man.
- Calling bullshit.
- It's hard to watch.
- Motherfucking cracker.
- Vasectomy nation.
- In the kingdom of the blind the one-eyed are king.
- On the above.
- Arrested materialism.
- How billionaires rule our schools.
- American dreaming.
- The Noble Palestinian?
- Hosni Mubarek, your plane is waiting.
- How fortunate the man with none.
- UPDATE! BLCKDGRD, misspelled and reviewed: An extremely prolific and slightly bizarre and visually unappealing blog, from an unconventional left-wing perspective. Heh, I agree with any three of four of those at any given time.
- Is the Red Line haunted?
- All you need to know about the Georgetown Metro Stop. And yes, the story that Georgetown residents fought a metro stop is an urban legend.
- Vanderslice covers Atlas Sound.
- Fan club.
- This week's new releases w/MP3.
- In power we trust the love advocated.
- RIP Charlie Louvin.
- More. I know more about his influence than his music, to be honest.
- UPDATE! Lots of Louvin songs.
- Bunnyrabbits, Satan, cheese, and milk.
Those are my bones rifted
and curled, knees to chin,
among the rocks on the beach,
my hands splayed beneath my skull
in the mud. Those are my rib
bones resting like white sticks
wracked on the bank, laid down,
delivered, rubbed clean
by river and snow.
Ethereal as seedless weeds
in dim sun and frost, I see
my own bones translucent as locust
husks, light as spider bones,
as filled with light as lantern
bones when the candle flames.
And I see my bones, facile,
willing, rolling and clacking,
reveling like broken shells
among themselves in a tumbling surf.
I recognize them, no other's,
raggedly patterned and wrought,
peeled as a skeleton of sycamore
against gray skies, stiff as a fallen
spruce. I watch them floating
at night, identical lake slivers
flush against the same star bones
drifting in scattered pieces above.
Everything I assemble, all
the constructions I have rendered
are the metal and dust of my locked
and storied bones. My bald cranium
shines blind as the moon.