Archives for September 2011

Today in Porn: Jesus Loves Porn Stars

Noticed this sticker in the window of a pickup truck the other day:

Here’s a closer view:

First time I’ve seen it actually slapped onto a car.  But these guys have been around for a long time.


Time to start work.  Enough noodling.  This thing needs to be done in two weeks.  This blog has just become my journal of accountability.  I know what needs to be done, I think.  Now I need to do it.

Down & Out in Louisiana in 1991

Dispatch from the Edge of Sleep

I Wonder if Binx Ever Saw This One?

Pope Fails in History

How long until Season 2 of The Borgias?

Kidding.  Season 1 was a big fat disappointment.  Which is not to say I didn’t watch it.

“… his Archie Moore mustache …”

Blooming at the Graveyard Gates

The Millions is my new favorite website.

A fine piece at The Onion‘s AV Club


Are indie films unfair to Christianity?


The Genie Soul of New Orleans

Loyola to host inaugural conference of the Walker Percy Center

Stationery Life with Wall Street Journal

For C.M.

The high plains desert butte that serves as my desk
Awaits a sunset to match this Monday’s sunrise
Of Cyclops – the name I call my computer screen.
The incarcerations and liberties of envelopes clutter
The silence, overcrowded as any Sing Sing orRiker’s Island.
The inky indictment of pens and leaden assumptions
Of pencils stick their fatal shafts and quills

Into a coffee-cup drained of life some time
In the flux between the Business section and Personal.
My keyboard arrays its slightly raised runes
To proffer the potential poetry of a profit margin
Lurking behind the chime of the market bell,
Unread as piles of stock reports, pensees
Of profit, dividend arias, and litanies of loss.

And the smell of perfume hangs past morning –
Your perfume, White Linen, wafting its assaults
Over my cubicle, mystic in its ambush
(Though you won’t know it perhaps until much later).
You announce routine military exercises along the border,
And with hosiery’s hush you’ll cross and uncross your legs
A thousand times each day. I count them all.

The keyboard’s furrowed grey chiclets, trim and zen
As pebbles in a Buddhist garden,
Please the fingers combing for figurative gems.
A squared layer of snowfall, sheets of vellum
Rest on the office stationery shelf.
The space bar’s staccato hammer threatens to dislodge them
Like dynamite whiting out mountain slopes

To inoculate them against avalanche and ice dam.
An American-made paper clip’s early
Immortality is twisted awry by
The diplomacy of our last phone conversation –
The mangled silver wire sits by the wall jack, a futile
Inchworm of outstretched steel, a snarling cork-screw.
It gathers nothing now, collects nothing, holds nothing.

Papers fall apart. Reports cannot hold.
The stapler and tape dispenser are moved
Into defensive positions behind
The plastic-armored computer tower. The rapid fire
Of a rear-guard memorandum (“Re: Us”)
Dares me to a pre-emptive strike against mergers
That would delete my nerve and put us back together again.


I’m no JOB…

…I never had the guts to just get up there and sing it.  But when I was a freshman, I went and wrote my very own “Country Feedback” style REM tune.

I’ll effect a cause effect
Between the now and then
Draw distinctions order knowledge
Present past and when
I knew the way around the pathways in my head

Flags and flowers on the markers
Isn’t it enough to say
I touched the place where lonely battles
Saw the light, the light of day.
Every year, the feast of all souls, talking to the dead

in graveyards, tumble downwards, cigarette
smells sweet at first then suffocates
But I’m not beaten yet.
Snow upon the silent tombstone lies there in my stead

There’s not a lot to hold your interest
Only what’s put there by me
Drift upon the slow still waters
Freezing in my memory
Just another carpetbagger, just another vagabond
A conversation never started slowly sinks in Jason’s pond.

“The powerlines have floaters so the airplanes won’t get snagged…”



Thatsmeinthe. Spot. Light.



Happy birthday, Lenny!


Oldoldoldoldoldoldoldoldold.  We are all old now.  We are all old now together.  Also:  old.

Arnobius Sestina Revis(it)ed

File under: “Hey, honey! I fuhgot a whole friggin stanza!”


Even today, we dare like gods to mar our
Universal complexion – pulling out all stops
To foreshorten the finish line. But victory wheels
Around and smacks us in the gob. Our greed appalls
Even vice’s piety – but rolls many more balls
With less friction than any old paradise.

We are experiencing postal difficulties…

Please be patient, as Brown is unable to do anything for me until they figure out why their zip codes are all boshed up.

In the meantime, know that the triolet contest winner will be announced shortly – as will first through fifth runner ups!