Check out the animated show Bat out of Hell on YouTube!

Archives for June 2014


Webb has a set. Scholars will be knocking at his door when the (other) Web unravels.

Heermeneutic of Suspicion

Tweet-er Jeet Heer, incidentally, though not himself a Catholic (see the last paragraph of his article on Hugh Kenner), wrote an interesting examination — and appreciation — of the centrality of Catholicism to Marshall McLuhan’s work for the July/August 2011 issue of The Walrus magazine.

See also?

What I did for Matthew Lickona’s birthday

kentucky buck

It’s called a Kentucky Buck  (a mule variation) and it’s coming to a San Diego cocktail review near you!



The usually-dormant Percy-L listserv has heated up of late.



Post your poems, prayers, and spankings in the birthday boy combox.

Kurt Olson

grew up in Clarkston, but the river
And falls, the whispers and glances, the side-
Walk life, the upright’s strings aquiver
Beneath his touch, made him decide
To chance it north, to break his language
In two or three, to speak the garbage
Out, out, to dumpster dive
His soul and come back out alive
With music that was lost on fathers
(Ungiven, unforgiven, lost)
And words beneath forgotten crust
Cast out in alleys where no one bothers
With berries from Kurt’s favorite pie,
The filling filling up his sky.

Thom Caraway

The Spokane flows the right direction
Away from North Dakota, with
The Empire Builder gaining traction
Towards the coast and mountain’s wrath.
Inside the train, a car away from
Dakota’s oceanic daydream,
Thom dines on salmon steak filet,
Adjusts his laurel-wreathed beret,
And watches good ideas grow better
As small town architects increase
Their sense of timing, form, and grace,
As morning comes and thoughts grow lighter.
Then Thom wakes in his Spokane bed
Where train dreams end with daily bread.

Three Sonnets

I. Word House
Where Amherst’s hermitess had bitten
The Puritan tongue with reproof,
Spokane now speaks such song, begotten
As rain, pronounced as raftered roof,
Refined as wine in cooling cellars.
What whirrs there through the threshold’s pillars?
It sounds to be a potter’s lathe
That spits out earthen sparks to bathe
The night with reason: words are shelter
For faith which palates reach with speech
Like star to planet, wave to beach.
The mystery of diction’s altar:
In stormy house, a world of calm –
In sonnet’s hovel, castled psalm.

II. Beard Nest
A formal nudity is shameless
Because the body knows what lust
Denies to serve: the many nameless
Conspiracies of love that nest
Like birds within the beard of Jesus.
Will darkened theaters cease to please us
(More known than knowing) just because
The plight of Job excites applause
For pleasure’s picture show? With Satan,
The naked frame reveals; but beer
Is found as near to elbow’s cheer
As language brewing roots in Latin –
And here, a man and woman found
A common tongue on common ground.

III. Water Board
The sifting surf is sorting shingles
Upon the beach. The clashing sounds
Of armies, ignorant as angels,
Is drowned as holy rage compounds
The wave that builds. But you know, fuck it.
A man can throw up in a bucket –
So justice gains what mercy lost –
A man can take his licks on a post –
So blood and history are bonded
As Adam waxes up his board
Now bounden where he lay, a lord
At play. Sea-savaged and up-ended,
He’s framed by grace – and tries to name
Its aspect ratio to fame.

Zan Agzigian

A flame from Sandra, both eyes open—
A tape recorded organ drones,
A spirit forces them for pardon
So full of tears and telephones.
In insulated Spokane houses
October Spokane windy punches
Handled our hearts with sleight of hand
In absolute pastures of chambered grassland.
Zan caught the truth and sent it flying
Inside our music, note for note
To help survive the spring time bite
Of being born while busy dying.
No fooling Zan’s become this place,
There is a God, she found the trace.