Thursday, May 20, 2010

Since You Asked

Josh Marshall's brief refresher course on civil rights.
Lesson:Don't trust anyone who says he's a libertarian.

Today's Poem

Is terrific. If you like it, you'll probably like her friends, too.

Hey You
by Adrian Blevins

Back when my head like an egg in a nest  
was vowel-keen and dawdling, I shed my slick beautiful 
and put it in a basket and laid it barefaced at the river 
among the taxing rocks. My beautiful was all hush 
and glitter. It was too moist to grasp. My beautiful 
had no tongue with which to lick—no discernable 
wallowing gnaw. It was really a breed of destruction 
like a nick in a knife. It was a notch in the works 
or a wound like a bell in a fat iron mess. My beautiful 
was a drink too sopping to haul up and swig!
Therefore with the trees watching and the beavers abiding 
I tossed my beautiful down at the waterway against 
the screwball rocks. Even then there was no hum.  
My beautiful was never ill-bred enough, no matter what 
you say. If you want my blue yes everlasting, try my 
she, instead. Try the why not of my low down, 
Sugar, my windswept and wrecked.

© 2010, Academy of American Poets. All Rights Reserved.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Headline O' Teh Day

Prices Jump After Germany Bans Naked Shorts

What can I say? It's a slo-o-ow news day unless you care that Arlen Specter may lose the Penn. primary and some guy in Connecticutt got outed by the New York Times for falsely claiming — once — that he fought in Vietnam.
Tha-a-at's all, folks.

Monday, May 17, 2010

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Another Good Poem

from the folks who will send you one a day so they're not filtered by Contrarienne. But maybe you like that.

Anybody Can Write a Poem
by Bradley Paul

I am arguing with an idiot online.
He says anybody can write a poem.
I say some people are afraid to speak.
I say some people are ashamed to speak.
If they said the pronoun "I" 
they would find themselves floating
in the black Atlantic
and a woman would swim by, completely 
dry, in a rose chiffon shirt, 
until the ashamed person says her name
and the woman becomes wet and drowns
and her face turns to flayed ragged pulp,
white in the black water.
He says that he'd still write
even if someone cut off both his hands.
As if it were the hands that make a poem,
I say. I say what if someone cut out
whatever brain or gut or loin or heart
that lets you say hey, over here, listen, 
I have something to tell you all,
I'm different.
As an example I mention my mother
who loved that I write poems
and am such a wonderful genius.
And then I delete the comment
because my mother wanted no part of this or any
argument, because "Who am I 
to say whatever?"
Once on a grade school form
I entered her job as hairwasher.
She saw the form and was embarrassed and mad.
"You should have put receptionist."
But she didn't change it.
The last word she ever said was No.
And now here she is in my poem,
so proud of her idiot son, 
who presumes to speak for a woman
who wants to tell him to shut up, but can't.

© 2010, Academy of American Poets. All Rights Reserved.

Link O' Teh Week

Dickipedia does not play favorites.
From the Billy Crystal entry:
Though Crystal has appeared in several successful movies – When Harry Met Sally … (directed by his friend dick Rob Reiner), City Slickers, City Slickers II, Analyze This, Analyze That, and the (probably) forthcoming Analyze The Other Thing – he is most closely linked to his directorial debut Mr. Saturday Night, a wildly self-indulgent fiasco that looked back at the life of a now-old Borscht Belt comic, providing Crystal with just the excuse he needed to appear on screen in some of the worst makeup in cinema history.