And over here, we have a blog post

Well hello there, my fellow Interneter, it’s been a bit of a while since we’ve had one of these “posts” on this a-here “weblog” so what I’ma do for ya is just sprinkle this page here will random bits of shit since my mind is blown from three weeks of teaching young ‘uns and old ‘uns how to correct run-on sentences (ha!) and why Joan Didion’s prose is the closes thing we have to the hum of choose your deity here and then write these “articles” for a “newspaper” yeah right and how.

Maybe there is such a thing as muscular prose. I’d describe it as frontal deltoid prose. With a twist.

And here you can see the percentage of people who believe in that beagle Darwin who propisized the coming of the Great Cock-a-Roch and evolution.

There is a spector of things that will come upon the Midwest to destroy boredom. With a flame thrower. There will be casualties. Sorta.

These are things being written about in Boise: Laugh houses and liquor laws, chief-of-staff’s last days and South Austin’s languid twang-hop weed-spot blues.

Never end a sentence with a comma. This I believe: colons are the scrounge of the song of the literal. C.f. Ned Lud. You have 52 semi-colon in your life; use them wisely.

These are the phrases.

Baghead. The Movie.

And now! A poem! By WM.

Mingus At The Showplace

I was miserable, of course, for I was seventeen
and so I swung into action and wrote a poem

and it was miserable, for that was how I thought
poetry worked: you digested experience shat

literature. It was 1960 at The Showplace, long since
defunct, on West 4th st., and I sat at the bar,

casting beer money from a reel of ones,
the kid in the city, big ears like a puppy.

And I knew Mingus was a genius. I knew two
other things, but as it happens they were wrong.

So I made him look at this poem.
“There’s a lot of that going around,” he said,

and Sweet Baby Jesus he was right. He glowered
at me but didn’t look as if he thought

bad poems were dangerous, the way some poets do.
If they were baseball executives they’d plot

to destroy sandlots everywhere so that the game
could be saved from children. Of course later

that night he fired his pianist in mid-number
and flurried him from the stand.

“We’ve suffered a diminuendo in personnel,”
he explained, and the band played on.