Hey! Look what Creamy brought us!
Walked to the door and dropped it. She loves us. She was at the party Sunday too.
Holyfuck! Look what I just found looking to complete a joke in links:
- Not satire.
- Corpocracy and justice.
- Suck it up.
- Invisible hand slaps invisible forehead.
- No (is the answer to the question in the sub-lede).
- How to start a revolution.
- Wah, you just winged me, see.
- You're right, I haven't written about Anthony Weiner.
- Media priorities.
- Creamy is the female of the three feral children of the mother who had the litter in our shed. She's the one we tried to convert to an indoor cat because her two brothers chase her when they see her. She's always been the best hunter of the three. She's a sweetheart and purr-machine.
- Which isn't to say I'm not going to post what I'm not writing about here elsewhere (though in my scribbled calligraphy) or that I'm not going to write sideways here what I'm not writing about directly here.
- I love United, but I'm quickly dying re: Corporate Soccer.
- Also, I've a Hilltop lurker(s). The catalytic incident is in real life, yo.
- Saw the police presence.
- OK, two words: gloat; wetwork.
- Ideas of reference.
- I remember being floored the first time I read White Noise. I remember Underworld boring me. DeLillo short stories, mostly old, out this Fall.
- Church of poetry.
- Church of women.
- Yes, that joke. I love XTC.
- Easy peasy.
- Struck dumb.
WEDDING THE LOCKSMITH'S DAUGHTER
The slow-grained slide to embed the blade of the key is a sheathing, a gliding on graphite, pushing inside to find the ribs of the lock. Sunk home, the true key slots to its matrix; geared, tight-fitting, they turn together, shooting the spring-lock, throwing the bolt. Dactyls, iambics-- the clinch of words--the hidden couplings in the cased machine. A chime of sound on sound: the way the sung note snibs on meaning and holds. The lines engage and marry now, their bells are keeping time; the church doors close and open underground.
Creamy is putting food on her family!ReplyDelete
I was going to glibly suggest that as regards your opening paragraph that you're in fact Weiner, but I should probably consult my Council of Wisdom before making any such accusation.ReplyDelete
Westerberg's "Runaway Wind" from 14 is one of my desert island songs. Full Stop. The leonine guitar growls and purrs, then howls and chimes. The lyrics aspire to the sort of poetry popular music has long since abandoned. And the passionate delivery—it's not your everyday ballad. I've long wanted to put it up on my site, but can't find a version. "C'mon I feel I'm going out tonight. I'm your spark; here I am."ReplyDelete
RG: Are you saying BDR been drawing pics of his manhood in his moleskine and showing it around old school style? He sort of doesn't deny it. Heh! I must confess my complicity in this sordid affair: his moleskine account may have been set up by me. Hey, you librarians are a sordid lot! No telling what y'all'll do next. All the better.
BDR: Thanks for looking in on yours truly. Check it out. For reals.