- Imagine me in a bar in Brownsville Pennsylvania.
- Autumn wind.
- Every few years like a reliable comet interest in Henry Green returns, it fascinates me. Christina Stead's The Man Who Loved Children comet used to circulate, not so much anymore. I remember a Walker Percy comet. Green's started before theirs and outlasted them. There is a reading group, a year of reading Green. Let me think about it... No, but I will read Caught, one I've never read, not necessarily right after Gass, but after Gass.
- Reading Gass. Digging in the Dark causes Dark.
- Here is a photo of Fleabus I am not going to enter in WFMU's mascot contest during their silent marathon. I blame Gass's Dark for my non-entry.
- I am enjoying POTUS now. Villagers hyperventilating! You agree with them re: Trump!
- Reminder: You're not one of them. Triskelions could be foreclosing your ass like you're a Mon Valley steel mill. Villagers don't care.
- One of those years.
- How to keep an NFL team out of jail.
- When to publish as a confessionalist poet.
- On the unmasking of Elena Ferrante. I wouldn't dox the assholist doxxer, the doxfuckers.
- Steve Reich was born 80 years ago yesterday.
MYSELF WITH CATS
Hanging out the wash, I visit the cats.
"I don't belong to nobody," Yang insists vulgarly.
"Yang," I reply, "you don't know nothing."
Yin, an orange tabby, agrees
but puts kindness ahead of rigid truth.
I admire her but wish she wouldn't idolize
the one who bullies her. I once did that.
Her silence speaks needles when Yang thrusts
his ugly tortoiseshell body against hers,
sprawled in my cosmos. "Really, I don't mind,"
she purrs—her eyes horizontal, her mouth
an Ionian smile, her legs crossed nobly
in front of her, a model of cat Nirvana—
"withholding his affection, he made me stronger.'