Planet went bowling this past weekend, sent me the above photo of a bowling ball spotted and immediately photographed. It's been added to Blogroll Right and I posted it a few nights ago for an overnight post to her, thought I'd add it in this post so it's in the permanent archives, plus these are my hell weeks at work, the three weeks a year (this is the middle week) when I don't trust my fury's targeting (I mean more than usual) and express frustrated fury in sentences like this one as a result, and me as bowling ball serves as apt and fortunately timed gag.
- Blogbud went Minnie Riperton on twitter yesterday, I mentioned she's been getting a lot of airplay on WFMU recently. I once loved someone who loved Minnie Riperton. I said give me a playlist, I'll cascade it, add some I find.
- I promise, Lovin' You is not in this blog post.
- These three weeks do provide intense why the fuck am I doing this bleggalgazing (I mean more than usual) in tablets, some will appear here and there eventually, or not.
- On anxiety.
- Philosophy for the weak.
- Angry
- Syria/
- obamapostasy/
- motherfucking Democrats
- links
- deleted.
- UPDATE! I gave hundreds of dollars and donated countless hours in 2004, including canvassing Harrisburg PA in the weekends before and on election day, for John "Syria 2013 is Munich 1938" Kerry. I'm well aware who the dumb motherfucker is here.
- The Way.
- Will a DC United stadium be worth it?
- Krasznahorkei, for those of you who do.
- The Blue Bowl.
- Silliman's generous litlinks.
- Copy/pasting the physical world.
- Nobel lit odds. Adonis?
- Harold Budd collected and reissued.
- New Lydia Davis story.
- Only when I'm dreaming.
- Completeness.
- I am the black gold of the sun.
- There is a Julia Holter cascade in your future.
AN INQUIRY INTO THE NATURE AND CAUSES OF THE WEALTH OF NATIONS
Simon Armitage
Compiling this landmark anthology of poetry in English
about dogs and musical instruments is like swimming through bricks.
To date, I have only, “On the Death of Mrs. McTuesday’s Pug,
Killed by a Falling Piano,” a somewhat obvious choice.
True, an Aeolian harp whispers alluringly
in the background of the anonymous sonnet, “The Huntsman’s
Hound,”
but beyond that — silence.
I should resist this degrading donkey-work in favor of my own
writing,
wherein contentment surely lies.
But A. Smith stares smugly from the reverse of the twenty pound
note,
and when my bank manager guffaws,
small particles of saliva stream like a meteor shower
through the infinity of dark space
between his world and mine.
