heh heh

Poetry Brothel in the New York Post

heh heh. that's me and my husband at center. John is the mc. three of the others in the pic were my grad students in poetry at one time, at the New School, and the others here are mostly MFAs from the New School. great young poets and among the other poetry whores not shown here. isn't it hilarious and great?  most of the books in the shot are mine, though I am holding the poetry book just published by one of my insanely talented former student, Amy Lawless, who is also a poetry whore but couldn't get away from work that day.  we'll all be there this friday night.

paler shade of pink

[take two] A Lesson for Anvryone (somewhere between anyone and everyone)

Before household furnishings were generally mass-produced and mass-transported, there were specialized annual markets and people traveled long distances to queue up to see the latest goods.  It suited the established townships to keep this system and they kept people from marketing new items at other locations and at other times in the year.  Though it was the men who did most of the line-standing, it was the women who led the eventual revolt, and thereby brought together the spark of industrialism and the bone dry tinder of romantic individualism.  By selling and purchasing used wares, people could avoid the lines, reject the hegemony, and eventually create a underground sales in the prohibited new wares by cleverly decorating them to appear old.  Though the original political and economic meanings have been forgotten, the antiques movement still hints of people who refuse the queues and enjoy trying to tell the fake from the real.

And that's where we get the word Anti ques.   (Yes, I am only kidding.  This is all nonsense I made up for that dumb joke.  I feel a little silly a lot lately, certainly since I joined the whim writers and gave myself up to whimsy.)

The expression on his tiny face reminds me of our tiny planet.

Alone and dyspeptic the paralegals ran through their aces and started on their kings, two of a kind, hypo allergenic and hypnotic.  Not it.  

Flour pour?

jump

Is everything OK?  Is it time to jump over all my inner fences?  Have I feasted on the goo inside?  I on honeydew have fed and drunk the milk of paradise.

Sometime before the revolution I got into the habit of getting into the costumes of nuns.   Who among us have not?  None.  

Since then I have allowed the giraffes on the labels on avocados to talk to me.  I don't talk back, but I do pay attention.  

Jump.  I'm so glad for you that you don't have to feel my emotions right now.  They are a lot like a riot.  You are one lucky son of a bitch.

Is to twitter to crow, or to hawk?  The classic tweet: I taught I taw a puddy cat.

A Bad Day

I am having a bad bad day.