- DC United upyuppied yesterday.
- I quit these motherfuckers long ago in a concrete stadium far away from now and when we never thought they'd get a new stadium
- though we knew they wanted to be these motherfuckers.
- 20 years to biblical apocalypse.
- This thread.
- Making money by fining the poor.
- There is no better metaphor for motherfucking America than motherfucking helmetball.
- Jim's backyard.
- Two days ago was Robert Duncan's centenary, once upon he (and the other forgotten Robert, Bly) were giants.
- Fleabus, though not yet feeble, now unmistakably geriatric.
- There's a kabong new Guided by Voices song!
POETRY, A NATURAL THING
Neither our vices nor our virtues
further the poem. “They came up
just like they do every year
on the rocks.”
feeds upon thought, feeling, impulse,
to breed itself,
a spiritual urgency at the dark ladders leaping.
This beauty is an inner persistence
toward the source
striving against (within) down-rushet of the river,
a call we heard and answer
in the lateness of the world
from which the youngest world might spring,
salmon not in the well where the
but at the falls battling, inarticulate,
blindly making it.
This is one picture apt for the mind.
A second: a moose painted by Stubbs,
where last year’s extravagant antlers
lie on the ground.
The forlorn moosey-faced poem wears
“a little heavy, a little contrived”,
his only beauty to be