Neptune's not an arrowhead, it's a bombpop

News Flash, Stephen Foster:

Grampa's forever a pirate, and Stephin Merritt
could be the Gordon Lish of modern music if

Bobbing for apples

Last Friday's blackout ordered:

Partial List of People to Bleach, by Gary Lutz
Scary, No Scary, by Zachary Schomburg
The Collected Stories, by Amy Hempel

All arrived today. A gift not remembered to myself.

Better than raspberry chocolate-chip in a chocolate coconut waffle cone.

Tourmaline, Tourmaline

I have an interview with the lovely Jennifer Davis over here.

NEW FRIENDS

Poppunk in a previous heart, life is why I love you

Pinprick, deer tick, Blueberry Lake

Reading I Is To Vorticism is like opening the door and finding a dozen seal pups limned in foxfire. "I'm Ben Mirov," they belch, before melting into snakes, then scarves, then little phosphorescent puddles. The puddles hiccup into crows, burst into night. A girl appears with horsemint, currants, and a garibaldi in a mason jar. "Drink," she says. You do. Night crumbles down to crows, and the crows collapse into puddles. In your right hand is an eyeball. In your left hand is a snowstorm. The eyeball is staring at you. "I'm Ben Mirov," it barks.

Hark! All Ye Young Malingerers!

D'ya know about slingshot litareview? Cast your hooded gaze East, my dears, into the briny daggers of the awful sun! For barracudas will bury thy spleen beneath the gourd, and slurp thy carp for supper.