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I'm thinking of back-cover descriptions for Mojo. What do you think of this one?What's the worst thing that can happen to a Gay guy?Petronius' brilliant satire is here re-imagined in current times. From LA to Long Beach; from Las Vegas to Baja California; from Burning Man to Malibu and Avalon, Kohl, his boyfriend Gordon and his ex Assauer can't seem to keep trouble at bay. After running afoul of a crazy sex cult, the boys are drawn into a secret world of power and silliness they never knew existed, and all while trying to keep one step ahead of their pursuers.Read on and find out why the wild characters they meet along the way can only come from Trump's America.
Some of our wonderful GA poets have recently posted poems about their dads. It makes me want to share this I wrote about mine some 4 years after he passed. I hope you like it
The streetcar leaves the tunnel
and rolls into a dark
that reminds me of him.
Such a dark
would send my father out.
A drive in any direction:
the country beckoned
and he would find somebody he knew.
Intentionally or not,
he hoped to sit
at their table, but not
by hunger led;
he sought their variety,
their vitality to know.
The evening blooming over him,
the dusk driving him so.
The car on the street
slowly turns its course
and I almost seem to be
like that man:
wanting to feel the
evening blossom over me.
Thank you, Mike. In poetry and other writing I've learned there is no right or wrong when it comes to interpreting meaning. Each reader's experience with the piece is valid. With this poem, I have a couple more motivators for writing it than you suggested, but all the points you mentioned are part of it too. You're right about dogs living in the moment and being excellent judges of character. People can live too much in the past or future, and I'm guilty of that. Anyway, there are no wrongs, so I truly appreciate you sharing your thoughts on the poem Thanks again
I jotted (most) of this down yesterday, and organized it a bit this morning. I'm not sure my message is coming through though... Every thought I have appears to revolve Through the mire of emptiness back to this: Whatever issue big or small I solve, Mood and mind are beyond analysis. There are times I chance to wake and see My dog dreaming peacefully at my feet, And wish his brand of naturalness for me When his sleep-tail wags for all he might meet. But in my head, concepts swirl most confused, Not trusting those who love or hate in kind, Shutting down former parts of me amused To glibly fool emotion undefined. As Shakespeare said, to wake perhaps to dream, For in truth, we must be more than we seem.
Three more pieces from Bennett Cerf’s book Good for a Laugh. These show how even in the deep-freeze of a Cold War, a person can always stay warm with a little humor.
Stalin called in his top “yes-men” one morning and boomed, “Boys, I’ve got a great idea! Let’s liberate the Pribilof Islands from the suffocating grip of those money-mad Wall Street bankers.” One yes-man was a little slow with his usual enthusiasm. “I feel I should point out,” he quavered, “that there isn’t a single person on the Pribilof Islands – nothing there but seals.” “They can clap, can’t they?” inquired Joe with a sideways smirk.” “Why, yes. All seals can clap.” “Good. Then after we get done liberating them, no one will be able to tell them apart from the Politburo!”
Commissar Malipoofsky journeyed from Moscow to Budapest to see whether the Hungarian state was growing enough potatoes to meet the Russian-imposed quota. “Ah, Comrade,” gloated his Hungarian deputy, “under the inspiration of the glorious Slavic Motherland, our peasants are digging up a crop beyond our wildest dreams. Our spuds will be sufficient to pile up a mighty mountain reaching to the feet of God.” “Enough of your corny dramatics,” said Commissar Malipoofsky, “you know there isn’t any God.” “Yes, and you know there aren’t any potatoes either.”
An Irishman was listening to the latest news spread by his mates at the local pub. Later that night, he remarked to his wife, “Seems they’re sayin’ it’s really Khrushchev who’s clapped down on the Korea.” “Well,” said the missus, “two for one! And may God bless the lassie who gave ‘em to him.”
I have to say, over the past few months I've really fallen in love with this performance. Scents of sand and sea are everywhere in it, and I keep reliving the seaside love scenes from Merchant-Ivory's "The Bostonian" The Cleveland Quartet, Dvorak String Quartet No. 12
Kanzan poem No. 212
To talk of food will part you with hunger;
To speak of clothes will leave you feeling exposed.
Eat food to be full; wear clothes to stay warm;
Give flesh what it's due, but find peace inwardly.
You may or may not know, but these three Preludes were selected for publication by a musical Gershwin friend. There were many more written and unpublished during his life, and "Sleepless Night" is arguably the best known of theses Preludes