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ah ha ha–a jape, a guffaw, a scallywag. the famed pope/lawyer dichotomy.

feel my heaping chest all atwitter with the nicky little things

we had some scrumptions with the lovely avita and amoebicA… wheee!

from the beetle god comes this, to which i reply in parts:

what do you write
somewhat in all the span of time that takes a licking: feel those bubbles!
what taints you
or when the tongue trolls around and probes that sticking place, a papered over wound that’s raw and hurtful
what takes you to the inside tumbling stones
and gravel shifting so in a silent unconscious
this, or staring out the window sometime, when all the world rolls by, or maybe a cat pouring liquid around the room
what makes you
the memory of myself, when the time comes, digging through that stack
what tells you when to go to bed in the morning and when to wake up at night
1) feel that rain dribbling oh it’s so… 2) there’s a burning in her eyes and o!
who is your one
that one that i find in the night when i wake from being alone
who finds you in the darkness when you are crying
all the tears in heaven don’t stop her from coming
who are you when you’re alone
only that slow molassess knows
what turns your headlights on
a magpie bird: spy those sharp and glitt’ry gewgaws that sparkle and shimmy in the corners and the crooks
what charges your mystery
all that surging in the textual ocean and so finding that one piece that puzzlepieces into place
who pulls your hands apart
those times when the skull fringes out, feel those hands crumpling together, fingerflaws jittering, and she arrives
what turns your head
too many things, i’m sure, all gewgawed and spangled
who sings to you
all the birds in heaven, when i listen
who do you sing to
all, when that heart floats, and i can’t restrain that bursting, no matter that offkilter song
what do you think when a train goes by
halfsleep or walking? there’s a wall that keeps on trucking
who lives in your salad
dwarfs and caterwaulers
where does it go when you’re done with it
back inside that clearly labelled box
what plays with your mind
all the self-tugged electo-chemicals; cards and rattlers and dice; the chatter-spackle that fills the days and rain
who makes fun of you in the rain
the dryfolk who laugh at raindogs
what do you have on your toast
marmalade and all
what loves you
the whole wide wicked wide world
who dismisses you
when my tongue dangles, and loafs thick inside my head, words go *poof*: watch their eyes go away
what relies on you
the best of all my heart
who turns your head
the laughing ones
where does it turn
all aslant and contrariwise

crane yer eyecicles at this flying spiral of visible splendor; courtesy of the whatchit.
green glowing worms led me to the many scribbles of her, but more, and more! which in turn bredcrummed my face into this smashable yum, oh goody!

the beetlegod’s got some absence of content to peruse. ya, it’s a big bunch of glitt’ry sumthins.

joker, keep laughing.
orange blossoms floating down the staircase.
will some grilled salmon sate?
unfiltered spring water thrown back,
yes, and some cool draught of sound.
until the breathtaking vista cracks,
wait here, wait soft, but wait.
some like to scrub their mind with wicker;
some, to eat their pumping heart.
(delicious, but unsettling, wet lips)
wildcards throw down, tip the table,
slide the scales right off.
gold bars clattering all around,
cling, clingity, clang.
but, o, joker, keep laughing.
there’s no gullible think that won’t be,
with gravitas and with scorn, thought.
worms crawling in the clutter,
feeding on the armchairs and out-of-tune
pianos; this trash is fading fast!

PBS’s FRONTLINE is doing a show called “The Way the Music Died” and the nice thing about it that you can watch it online.

There’s a transcript of a neat interview with David Crosby… among others.

It’s not the first time that I wished we had a BBC-equivalent in the States…

that’s a killer bean, old bean!