Escobar couldn’t hear so good.
His cold — the same cold he was
complaining about last month —
had taken root now, deep inside
the curly spots that led from ears to brain.
You might think he would open his eyes
wider to compensate, to pull in
extra visual cues.
But he was going the other way instead.
Withdrawing like evening fish.
Letting things happen around him without much fuss.
For example: when that guy flipped him off,
Pablo Escobar (1949-1993) just nodded.
Blog
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Escobar’s Cold
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Belated Reflections on the Animated Feature “Happy Feet”
Reflection number 1.
It’s just a matter of time before “Happy Feet: The Musical” hits Broadway. So if, like me, your chest starts to constrict at the thought of 100 people tap dancing their hearts out while wearing penguin suits, just consider this fair warning. The time to implant that cyanide capsule in molar #32 is now.
Reflection number 2.
Although I certainly enjoyed the movie and I laughed and laughed when the birdies bumped into each other and went falling down, I was left with the nagging feeling I’d just seen an exceptionally deviant film. (spoiler alert) The message appeared to be that humanity would stop destroying nature if only animals were more…entertaining. Even weirder than that — it’s not enough that the animals sing really well. They need to dance. So dance my fluffy friends! Dance or die! -
By request: Carl Sandburg
(It’s not every day that someone asks you to write a short poem about Carl Sandburg.)
Carl Sandburg
was a dangerous man
always creeping around
on little cat feet infecting
people with
TB. -
Blue coffee
You gotta
let it fly
spread it around
your community
like spilling blue coffee
on your neighbors, the family
a cup of the “things I’m bummed about” grind.
After all,
if everyone has a
blue coffee stain on their shirt
who’s going to get all in your face about
that blue coffee stain
on your shirt? -
First, the flash
on the plane ride home
that I might be the one who dies young —
that flimsy-bodied office worker whose organs
gave out.
Then the smiling round
retired banker capturing me at the local tea shop
telling me only the rich are happy
that I don’t really know Orange County
that I’m due for a double-chinned heart attack
and what will happen to my wife and kids then?
Finally a voicemail from my doctor saying
hi
my total cholesterol is high
I’m at high risk for cardiac disease.
She hopes it’s OK to leave this in a message but she’s going on vacation.
And it came roaring out of his eyes, his ears, his nose, his throat
like some kind of pressure-cooked stew where you
can’t make out the specific vegetables involved
but it’s obvious something’s
been mashed. -
The Against the Day Deathmarch Pause That Refreshes
Back in January aught 5 a hardy band of pioneer types set forth on what some say was the very first blog-based literary deathmarch — the so-called “Gravity’s Rainbow Deathmarch,” in which a crew of modern day Lewis and Clark types banded together and managed, over five months, to read an extremely difficult book.
Two years later, we’ve read Pale Fire by Nabokov At Swim Two Birds, by Flann O’Brien, Don Quixote by Cervantes, and To the Lighthouse by Woolf. And now it’s time for perhaps our greatest feat yet. Not only will we read a difficult book, but it will be a difficult book that was published in this century. Specifically: Against the Day, Pynchon’s recently released behemoth.
But when’s it start?
The spines crack Tuesday January 30th. All are welcome. We’ll probably need a thousand people to join this time to get three people through, which seems unlikely, but, ya know, tell a friend. If you’d like to join up, this would be a great time to pick up a copy
Dare I ask…prizes?
As ever, we’ll be tackling around 50 pages a week. And yep, there will be the nigh magical lure of mug prizes for up to 30 people who finish and comment every week.
So what now?
Well, right here on this very thread would be an excellent place for you to sound off if you plan on marching, with your excitement, your fear, your loathing, all your strongest emotions. We’ll need to put that behind us soon. For on the ‘march we can only afford ourselves steely resolve. And the occasional donut.
See you on the dirt,
-Cecil -
Whiskey plush
He achieves a softer plush with his face
letting the gray grassy mass
accumulate.
Short enough he will not chew
a whiskey growth
a little moss.
Something to rub at during meetings.
that won’t come come off
on the fingers. -
Dance party tonight
Would you like to dance?
A gazillion years later
would you still like to dance?
Put on high boots and a dangerous skirt?
Are you addicted to garbage
this weekend? Age inappropriate?
Will you shake that thing?
And are you all the rage
again? -
The Scooby-Doo Conundrum
I just told my kids that Scooby-Doo has a speech defect. But now I’m not sure.
Even though the dog speaks and functions in a very human way, is he not still essentially a dog? And given that, should we not therefore judge him as some sort of super-freak dog speech genius, relative to the dog-normal-speaking-ability curve???
If I spoke Chinese as well as Scooby speaks English, compared to how most dogs speak English (eg: not at all), let’s just say: I’d speak really good Chinese.
Perhaps the so-called “defect” lies not in Scooby’s speech, but in our hearts and their collective inability to judge things relative to a dog-normal-speaking-ability curve.