Good news/bad news: 102 degree fever. Hate the sore throat, love the dreams. Better news: just bought three tickets to see Magnetic Fields in Philadelphia on March 7, smack in the middle of Planet's Spring Break, the three of giving ourselves a holiday in the middle of Meh. While Planet and I are psyched about the show (and I still have three tickets available for the Magnetic Fields show in DC on Monday April 9 - though there is horrible news: motherfucking DeVotcka is opening, fucking shoot me - if anyone wants to go with us), Earthgirl is excited most about Van Gogh Up Close at the Philadelphia Museum of Art ($30 a pop: holywhathtefuck).
SOME LIKE POETRY
Wislawa Szymborska
Some--
that means not all.
Not even the majority of all but the minority.
Not counting the schools, where one must,
and the poets themselves, there will be perhaps two in a thousand.
Like--
but one also likes chicken noodle soup,
one likes compliments and the color blue, one likes an old scarf,
one likes to prove one's point,
one likes to pet a dog.
Poetry--
but what sort of thing is poetry?
More than one shaky answer
has been given to this question.
But I do not know and do not know and clutch on to it,
as to a saving bannister.
