I have to admit I was sticking my neck out with this one and I'm not crying in my bier--but I couldn't for the life of me resist the temptation to have one more beer, Coors, of course, in this here dank cellar, d'ya hear?
Poor people's graveyards are lovely simulations of a democratic paradise that has never existed, still to dream of such places is more pleasant by far than to imagine being forced to suffer through (see right margin) a "free online course on modern & contemporary American poetry".
(What'll these grant funded easystreet cybermarketers think up next??)
Did I hear you say "zombies in cyberpoesyland" or was it just my imagination? Either way (that's democracy for you), it looks like this course is going to knock 'em dead again.
Well, a sneak preview of an old hat -- it's that way with the modern & contemporary walking dead. Just going through the motions, a bit of green mould under the fingernails, perhaps a sliver or two from prying open the coffin lid: nothing that can't be cured by two or three more grants, a major prize, full tenure and perhaps a Chair (velvet lined of course). It's like they say, If you can't write it, sit on it.
now thanx to y'all all of this (it) makes perphecht sense to me ! also: re-garding these grants and blue or red velvet chairs;
where can I get me some so's I can finish up (my) ARS POETIC HER and move on to these contiual interviews of potential knew (new?) muses ? all they (these young, cute muses seem to want is money & glitter & fame
This is such a nice blog to read. It is an interesting article. You have spoken your thoughts very well in this. The author has done a great job with this blog. Great. obituary
A fine poem, but you misspelled "beer".
ReplyDeletebeer after beer after beer
ReplyDeleteNothings clinging
taken far into some 3,000 page sutra as:
Nothings' clinging ... & then
gone ?
I have to admit I was sticking my neck out with this one and I'm not crying in my bier--but I couldn't for the life of me resist the temptation to have one more beer, Coors, of course, in this here dank cellar, d'ya hear?
ReplyDeletePoor people's graveyards are lovely simulations of a democratic paradise that has never existed, still to dream of such places is more pleasant by far than to imagine being forced to suffer through (see right margin) a "free online course on modern & contemporary American poetry".
ReplyDelete(What'll these grant funded easystreet cybermarketers think up next??)
Did I hear you say "zombies in cyberpoesyland" or was it just my imagination? Either way (that's democracy for you), it looks like this course is going to knock 'em dead again.
ReplyDeleteWell, a sneak preview of an old hat -- it's that way with the modern & contemporary walking dead. Just going through the motions, a bit of green mould under the fingernails, perhaps a sliver or two from prying open the coffin lid: nothing that can't be cured by two or three more grants, a major prize, full tenure and perhaps a Chair (velvet lined of course). It's like they say, If you can't write it, sit on it.
ReplyDeleteSit on it?
ReplyDeletehttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:RGS_13.jpg
CHARLATAN
Yikes! I can almost
Picture it—
A fakir
Riveted on
Going through
The motions
On a bed of spikes.
And the really strange thing is, the guy says his problem is sleep apnea.
ReplyDeletenow
ReplyDeletethanx to y'all
all of this (it) makes perphecht
sense to me !
also:
re-garding these grants and blue or red velvet chairs;
where can I get me some so's I can finish up (my)
ARS POETIC HER
and move on to these contiual interviews of potential
knew (new?) muses ? all they (these young, cute muses seem to want is money
& glitter & fame
instead of my "free" verse & loving waves.
Ah, apnea but
ReplyDeleteSTOP!
Are we ready to take this thing
(apologies to James Arness),
to its logical occlusion?
This is such a nice blog to read. It is an interesting article. You have spoken your thoughts very well in this. The author has done a great job with this blog. Great. obituary
ReplyDeleteDear Tyler,
ReplyDeleteThis Is Just To Say
I have read
the words
that were in
the icebox
of your brain
and which
you were probably
saving
for your tombstone
forgive me but
I’m sending them
back where they deserve
to be preserved
so sweet
and so cold
in marble aid