The good.
The yikes (especially this bit: “American officials have known about this vulnerability for years, but they didn’t think enemies would know how to take advantage of it… Now the United States is getting ready to spend as much as $4.5 billion to buy new-generation drones that have the same vulnerability.” We probably have TEENAGERS who can take advantage of it. Don’t you watch movies?!!)
The friggin finally.
trio of not
1.
So many lovely
maternity dresses hang
wasted in her house
2.
Dying word, ‘Eclogue’ –
poem where shepherds converse –
awaits new Dark Age.
3.
Once-proud unicorn,
On which reality show
shall I blame your fall?
Wow, I just happened upon this article, The Final Martini (on the terrors of aging and what ways seem the pleasantest to die before-hand), and it is interesting enough, nothing surprising. I tend to ponder methods of death often — I think we all do, pondering pleasant ways to die, not because we WANT to but because everyone does, this is not a suicidal or homicidal post — ANYWAYS, the coolest part was a poem someone quoted in the comments.
It’s by Sharon Olds, called “The Promise“, and I have decided that I love it. Read it read it read it.
Lover
If I were the sun I would
sift down,
copper-spark tufting hair,
paint myself
across your gentled lids –
honey golden –
mustard yellow –
stinging into the gelled
whites of your eyes
and
blotching, burning your
swelling lips,
before you could tell
another
goddamned
joke.
Evening Relaxation
Garroted joggers –
swimming cars and pet food ads –
filleted prostitutes.
The creepy priest from
There Will Be Blood follows me,
bagging my groceries.
Holy Tango. A guy at work pointed this out to me over the free pizza. So, basically, this guy takes a poet’s name, does an anagram of it, and makes the anagram into the title of a poem. Then he writes the poem, in the poet’s style, relevant to the title.
To whet your appetite:
Though you are square cut
I savor your grease-tinged spice,
pay price with small talk
