- Joan Armatrading is 64 today. Do you want to hear about the backpacking trips w/Phavid Dillips when we'd load up on AAA batteries and listen to Joan Armatrading cassettes around the campfire or about me and Lara Sevy and the Armatrading concerts at 930 and Wolftrap? I didn't think you did.
- Luteous. Is true, Lara Sevy's hair was luteous, though the inside joke remains the same. Yes, this post built, in significant part, for that.
- Time, substance, and the void.
- Deadlock.
- Defeat is victory.
- Accelerating towards an Arctic blue ocean event.
- Providential coincidences.
- White people.
- Dear White People.
- Motherfucking NPR.
- Motherfucking Obama, motherfucking Democrats.
- War against ad-blockers.
- I confess, I did not know twin-engine jets flew in and out of Montgomery County Airpark until yesterday's crash.
- Shoot the motherfuckers who feel a need to fly twin-engine jets into Gaithersburg.
- My future hell.
- My future hell.
- A year's worth of book reviews.
- In Ishiguro's The Unconsoled, when Ryker is watching 2001: A Space Odyssey starring Yul Brenner and Clint Eastwood..... As always, if you want a copy let me know, I'll send you one...
- Straight off the Philip K.
- A night at the opera.
- New York radio on the night John Lennon died.
- Pynchon's Mason & Dixon, riff number two.
PROBATION
Averill Curdy
The cheap dropped ceiling
jumped like a pot-lid boiling
when our upstairs neighbor
chased his girl that winter.
Falling out of
summer’s skimpy tops
she’d want our phone. Her plush lips
creased. Not exactly blonde,
but luteous, we thought,
pleased the right word
was there for that shade
of slightly slutty mermaid.
Wincing, we’d hear him punch
along the floor on crutch-
es, a giant
bat trying to mince
a mayfly. Sex and Violence
you called them; Blondie with
Dagwood on crystal meth,
I’d tell our friends
over dinners stewed
in noise. Even his truck cowed.
Black, smoked glass, outsized wheels
flaunted like chrome knuckles
we shrank from, ducked,
afraid we’d find her
later, knocking at our door.
Some nights we waited through
like captured prey. To you
I’d turn in bed,
saying the furtive
words against your back, I love
... You’d stroke my hair, or hip,
all our years the same flip
crack, I do, too.
