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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 …”

The Fearful Self

Photo credit: samhakes from

Question: What is so frightening to so many people about speaking to an audience?

(a) Is it because the ever-present chance of making a fool of oneself before one person is multiplied by the number of listeners, so that an audience of 50 persons is 50 times more terrifying than one? Is an audience of 50 million a million times more terrifying than 50?
(b) Is it because, since one person, friend or stranger, is often difficult to deal with, 50 people are 50 times more difficult?
(c)  Is it because there are only 2.5 weeks until the conference?

Blooming at the Graveyard Gates

The Millions is my new favorite website.

My strategy for the conference.

In a word: Slipsum.

A fine piece at The Onion‘s AV Club


Are indie films unfair to Christianity?

Try this at home

Enjoy your weekend, everybody!

Perhaps we can get James Franco to intern at Korrektiv Press

It is a serious course, taught by Mr. Franco in an attentive if mellow mode. He said that no exuberant fans had banged down his classroom door, nor had anyone enrolled “just because they liked ‘Tristan and Isolde.’ ”

“I feel like we’re beyond the phase of experimentation,” he said of his students’ progress.

Mr. Franco’s students are getting ready to shoot a collaborative film in Detroit in November.
In May, before the class began, Mr. Franco assigned each student to conceive a short film inspired by a different C.K. Williams poem about “decay, but also a sense of memory and rejuvenation.”

from Meredith Hoffman’s “My Teacher’s a Movie Star and All He Wants to Talk About Is Poetry” at the NYT


The Genie Soul of New Orleans

Loyola to host inaugural conference of the Walker Percy Center

Calling All Poets…

…which means several members of the Kollektiv and the Kommentariat:

Announcing the second annual Poetry Contest!

An award will be given to the writer who submits for consideration the most outstanding poem within the realm of health, science, or medicine.

The contest starts today and ends September 30th, 2011. The winners will be chosen shortly thereafter by an elite group of 8 judges (other doctors, friends with literary training, and select bloggers).

The contest is open to everyone.

1st prize – the prestigious, and still pretentiously named, 2011 Charles Prize for Poetry, $500.00, and a homegrown cherry tomato from my garden.

Runner Up – $100.00, and lots of admiration.

Honorable Mention – a commemorative t-shirt, which will probably be funkier than you can imagine.

I would like to see a clean sweep of the Charles Poetry Contest by Korrektiv-related personas.

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.


Note to treasurer: Cut checks to ghostwriters, stunt doubles

This has nothing to do with the mission of Korrektiv, but I just think it’s funny. A “social media expert” fired one of his ghostwriters and, well:
I wonder how much ghostwriting for Twitter brings these days?
WAIT. I think I can work this into my presentation…