Excrescences
- At May 14, 2007
- By Bob Howe
- In Blog Posts
5
From today’s Get Fuzzy:
I am bloated with steamy wondrousness. My poems are not so much written as they are excreted.
Really, I couldn’t have said it better myself.
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I'd read this. https://twitter.com/Crying_Sweating/status/1307467559218810882
All I want is a Thomas Pynchon novel that connects the DB Cooper highjacking to the Max Headroom broadcast hijacking. I know they are a connected somehow but I can't prove it.
One thing I love about New York right now? How people pull up their masks as they approach strangers on the street. It’s a sign of respect, community and common sense. Just call us the heartland.
“I thought it was all Carlos Castaneda, mescalin medicine man bollocks,” the girl said as she wiped blood from her brow. “How was I to know the fucker really meant it?” https://www.williammeikle.com/aboutsongsofdreaminggods.html
Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg served until her last day. Rep. John Lewis walked the Edmund Pettus Bridge in 2020 after announcing his Stage 4 pancreatic cancer diagnosis. Rep. Elijah Cummings signed subpoenas from his death bed. What do we owe them? EVERYTHING we can give.
keikaimalu
Didn’t know you wrote poetry. 🙂
eleanor
Sweetie, it was not in your best interest that I saw that first sentence.
admin
Let’s just say Donald Hall isn’t losing any sleep over my output.
admin
But I thought you liked the steamy wondrousness! And wasn’t that a Barry White song?
eleanor
That’s not the point. Just imagine this: It’s late. You’re almost asleep. The dog is at your feet, a cat is on your head, and a redhead is next to you. That’s when, from out of the darkness, an entirely too cheerful voice exclaims “Steamy wondrousness!”