No, I don't want to explain why Karkowski works on me - to me much less you - since someone asked. Maybe I'll elaborate more someday, if only to me, but I'm happy enough putting on the headphones and being melted by the music and not worrying why it works after I reemerge. Lordy, it works.
- BRT. My next project, should I choose to accept it, is wondering about Veirs Mill Road, sometimes spelled Viers Mill Road, the most underrated most important route in Moco in my Moco mapological universe.
- Necessary.
- GITMO's banned book list.
- Riffing obliquely on how a David Foster Wallace road movie is a terrible idea.
- Frances interviewed.
- Whisht.
- Merrill, for those of you who do. I could be very wrong when I say I don't see nearly the clamor for Merrill's poetry as once - and he was a superstar in that tiny universe once - and it's not because he was gay but because the poetry hasn't aged well.
- In this bullshit but harmless(?) silliness I'm Sylvia Plath, with predictable 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th. But yes, yellow, purple, blue.
- In the House of Wax.
- Obscure Sound's Top 50 albums of 2013, with sound.
ADVANCES
Keith Waldrop
seventy wingbeats
per second
vagaries of vegetation, rosy
anticipation I
turn the page without
reading
essence of
accident
what is the strongest
motive what
drives the solar wind
time’s not so
old, dating only
from the creation
New England has
cooled significantly, icy
core with a sooty coating
this ice
hard to break—the brain
will have to wait
catharsis of the
vulture, obligatory
vespers
a bat, painted the
color of joy, head
downward because
the brain is
heavy I put on
music but don’t always
listen
whether magma could
rise to where tones reach
audible frequencies
modest success with a late
parasitic moth we will soon
find out if all this
is true
sudden drain on the
heart, more
doubt, the big
melt: anything
gone is
replaced
