The soil spoke, at that thing in the wood's bidding

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·      to thrive on an ambience that can't be beat!

·      to feel good!

·      to travel vicariously myself

·      to think living at a hotel is great!

Flaming American at BMA

"His model for Flaming American was a swimmer from Yale whom Hartley met
when staying with the young man's aunt and uncle during the summer of 1939."

6th of July Dunkfest, Baltimore

sponsored by Love and the Eye by the (inestimably) classy Laura Newbern

Lightning storm from my window

The White Alb

Manzarek ate a hardboiled egg. - Joan Didion

Hangover haiku

I am a wienie
had to make a martini
and now I'm sorted.

Son talks to mom

My Secret History

A cyclist went past and cleared his throat and spat a squirt of red betel juice at us, just missing Eden's dress. Eden did not see it as hostility. The man was just a bumpkin on a bike."

- Paul Theroux

I just googled our names and this came up

"those bodacious dudes have an excellent time playing games with death"

cliffhanger

"by the end the only thing I wanted to know was how Wordsworth was going to help that poor soul with his asshole"

News from nowhere

Bit scary not having my team of poets to back me up on this one, Marty. Just me and the Chilean anti-poet and my indefatigable sloth.

A great image

Sometimes I think of my dad in the summer. He’s in the backyard sitting under the small leaf maple tree eating a hot dog with sauerkraut and watching the hummingbirds. They buzz across the suburban lawn shining in the sparkle of the sprinkler’s rainbow mist.

Jim Harrison (1937-2016)

Key figurehead in the development of a bawdy literature

In Tate's typewriter when he died

Translated a bit of Geoff

Canterbury Tales

Prologue

When in April the kind showers fall

grooming March who was parched to the root and all,

filling every vein with the liquor and the power

to inject life therein and grow many flowers.

Zephyr, too gassy and bloated for words, blows

heathen gusts into every husk, every rusted heath,

while the tender crops, and the young sun,

middle-aged scum, sleeps —

and wired warblers

drone

on through

the night with dead eyes open-wide.

(Coaxed by nature, we rampage lightly)

men and women-folk alike, palm-reading pilgrims,

reed-playing palmers, we long to go on long pilgrimages

to seek out new Strands and pay respect

to the old shrines well-known in distant lands,

from every shire's end

of England to Canterbury we go,

to find the great leader

and bliss-out our souls.

For Monday

Read "Bartleby the Scrivener" by Herman Melville. Pace yourself it's a long one. Also, it's kind of funny, so don't forget to laugh.

Metropolis Cafe, MIlledgeville

1 story called 8 different things

Humdinger's Unite

Bobby Went Down to The Sea

Tangerines

63 Blue House

Sitwell's Getting Better

Getting Better

Redemption Story

One Life to Live

I'm sure there's more.

News at Eleven

Sold!

Carla Davidson writes, “That eighteenth-century British curmudgeon Dr. Samuel Johnson once remarked, ‘I would rather see a portrait of a dog that I know than all the allegorical paintings they can show me in the world.’

A hundred years later an American who shared this sentiment, Cassius Marcellus Coolidge (1844-1934), began painting the daily life of some very humanoid canines, an artistic subspecialty that was preceded by a string of careers. In the upstate New York town of Antwerp, Coolidge worked, almost simultaneously, as a druggist, painter of street signs and house numbers, and founder of the first newspaper and earliest bank all within the years between 1868 and 1872. It was after a trip to Europe in 1873 that he turned up in Rochester, New York, as the portraitist of dogs whose life-style mirrored the successful middle-class humans of his time. Coolidge’s first customers were cigar companies, who printed copies of his paintings for giveaways. His fortunes rose when he signed a contract with the printers Brown & Bigelow, who turned out hundreds of thousands of copies of his dog-genre subjects as advertising posters, calendars, and prints. “Coolidge’s poker-faced style is still engaging today. His dogs fit with amazing ease into such human male phenomena as the all-night card game, the commuter train, and the ball park. His details of expression, clothing, and furniture are precise.

Uncannily, the earnest animals resemble people we all know, causing distinctions of race, breed, and color to vanish and evoking the sentiment on an old Maryland gravestone: MAJOR Born a Dog Died a Gentleman” (“A Man’s Life,” American Heritage, February 1973, p. 56).

http://www.sothebys.com/en/auctions/ecatalogue/2015/american-art-n09425/lot.78.html