2013/05/22

Trolling and Trawling and Crawfishing and Crabbing





I'm keeping the name of the blog and will still byline and comment as BDR, but in the space of thirty seconds yesterday I decided to type in my name (it's weird, I'm hesitant this time) - Jeff Popovich - just before a half-hour appointment I couldn't avoid so to prevent me from changing my mind in the minutes before someone might read it. Beyond my prime explanation yesterday (that I'm nobody, that no one gives a shit, if I was someone of interest I would have many more readers witnessing me digitally self-incriminate myself shamelessly here, there, everywhere, and Corporate knows how to find me if its bots register word algorithms here that signal me as a threat), the immediate catalyst was the discovery that someone I dearly love who is much shier and much more private than me posts her art and signs her name, if she can, I can, I impulsively thought. I'd been thinking about this for months. I'm still working out the other reasons: they remain fascinatingly mysterious to me, multi-faceted, both ambitious and cowardly, I'll get back to you or not, you only think you get autobiography here, you've no idea how much I'd need give to explain. What this is not: it is not a call for others to end their anonymity nor an assertion of moral bravery on my part vis a vis anyone else. As with everything here, there, and everywhere, it's all about me. It had nothing to do with anyone who reads or links to or blogrolls this blog though it did have something to do with the stupid King of Anarchist contests raging since the infinitesimal paradigm shift: now that some on the professional left have moved towards obamapostasy it's vital for some - me included, of course - to remain lefter than thou. Yes, it has to do with what I do with this shitty blog. Yes, I realize this is only interesting to me. Plus, if someone gets what I did yesterday with the reveal and echoing Wright opening line, they'll know my name for a second then forget both the name and the gag.












MAP

Atsuro Riley

Daddy goes.
         Trolling and trawling and crawfishing and crabbing and bass-boating and trestle-jumping bare into rust-brackish water and cane-poling for bream and shallow-gigging too with a nail-pointy broomstick and creek-shrimping and cooler-dragging and coon-chasing and dove-dogging and duck-bagging and squirrel-tailing and tail-hankering and hard-cranking and -shifting and backfiring like a gun in his tittie-tan El Camino and parking it at The House of Ham and Dawn's Busy Hands and Betty's pink house and Mrs. Sweatman's brick house and Linda's dock-facing double-wide and spine-leaning Vicki against her WIDE-GLIDE Pontiac and pumping for pay at Ray Wade's Esso and snuff-dipping and plug-sucking and tar-weeping pore-wise and LuckyStrike-smoking and Kool only sometimes and penny-pitching and dog-racing and bet-losing cocksuckmotherfuck and pool-shooting and bottle-shooting over behind Tas-T-O's Donuts and shootin' the shit and chewin' the fat and just jawin' who asked you and blank-blinking quick back at me and whose young are you no-how and hounddog-digging buried half-pints from the woods.  


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