Been long, and many rows, a shark's mouth of things, really, become Fall, and now post-fall, winter's preface. My electronic Isabell, seven years old ( 139 computer years ), refuses electronic embracing, now is dormant along with my will to get her de-wintered.
I had meant to list some hot debate moments:
ROM: "Migrating bird act" / "renewables" / "He isn't Mr. Oil, Mr. Coal, Mr. Wind, Mr. Gas" / "This is a nation of immigrants" / "currency manipulators" / "We can't kill ourselves out of this one" / "we interrupt them" / "responsible" / "we want a peaceful planet" / "responsibility has fallen to america"
BAR: "We saw adrift" / "which loophole are you gonna close?" / "gangbangers" / "when folks mess with americans we will hunt them down" / "I am the one who greets those coffins" / "those who killed us"
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I had meant to give a report from the field of Nashville's Southern Festival of Books:
Scampered my quiet to, Nico morning, on everywhere, things above my lungs, I cawed and bit the space near my head. & inside, people in clothes, and me, a hidden cigarette butt in my bag. We are working on pieces of longing. We can undo pieces of language, or do, and no more, covering, a place, which is to say, relocating. Awhile-region, voids.
Clay Matthews was simply bronson. Notes of Ben Learner ( A of Yaw ) in his writing. Adam Vines read some good stuff from his Coal book.
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I had meant to tell of the books now, of the music too:
Reading about Eskimos of Thule. And reading Whitman. I blame Pitch Perfect. And Freaks and Geeks. And my Beefheart.
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And getting a poem, "Episodes, of mouth," to Cricket Online Review's next thang. How grand they are. Volume VIII, No. II, due before the end of the year.
