Oye, the planet the sun is spreading lines, we can show our jaws against all the rest of our bodies again, having no conversation, monologue atop which Yo La Tengo will be laid.
Farce, a James Joyce has quick litters he told his brother:
August 26, 1928
Hired a new secretary named Beckett. Writes letters for me. I read
them and I have no idea what he’s talking about. One to the
phone company starts “The bill. The bill. The bill. I can’t talk
about the bill.” What the hell does that mean? It means I am in
And lo, our eyes doth not deceive thou: 'pider 1 poet Chris Hosea has won the Walt Whitman poetry prize ( 5,000 cash, plus street cred to bark like dmx if he wants ):
Also, Beef Oven, smashy spit gravel party they are, did double show last week, at Dino's, bless their souls, then Mercy Lounge to nightcap ( I got a large hunk of the shell of an orange lodged under my middle finger nail which oozed vitamins into me, curse ).
The Beefs and John Carpenter, plus mystery 3rd band, are playing The Caldwell House houseshow on the 21st, come out and have a garden party with us springtime radishes ( and if you have a bad-mitten court to set up, bring it ).