Friday, April 9, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Friday, March 12, 2010
Do you remember the first time you saw Tarzan? but have you ever read the novel? Let's start with Chapter 5.
Tenderly Kala nursed her little waif, wondering silently why it did not gain strength and agility as did the little apes of other mothers. It was nearly a year from the time the little fellow came into her possession before he would walk alone, and as for climbing--my, but how stupid he was! Kala sometimes talked with the older females about her young hopeful, but none of them could understand how a child could be so slow and backward in learning to care for itself. Why, it could not even find food alone, and more than twelve moons had passed since Kala had come upon it.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Dune was written by Frank Herbert, and was published in 1965. Here is an excerpt.
In the week before their departure to Arrakis, when all the final scurrying about had reached a nearly unbearable frenzy, an old crone came to visit the mother of the boy, Paul. It was a warm night at Castle Caladan, and the ancient pile of stone that had served the Atreides family as home for twenty-six generations bore that cooled-sweat feeling it acquired before a change in the weather.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Bukowski amazes me every time I read and reread any of his books. He makes the ordinary look extraordinary, or has it always been that way?. His writing is marked by an emphasis on the ordinary lives of poor Americans, the act of writing, alcohol, relationships with women, and the drudgery of work. Try reading Pulp, to star with.
luck from a kitchen
what matters is still being here in
this kitchen with my small radio, this
rolled cigarette and
with a two-foot stack of fresh blue
laundry.
I’m sure I’ve sprayed
the last of the roaches and
what matters is that this tabletop
is littered with new poems.
two drunks fight in the apartment
to the rear, the cats walk
up and down the courtyard
and around the corner
girls sit in massage parlor
doorways
dreaming of love.
what matters is still being here in
this kitchen with my small radio, this
rolled cigarette and
with a two-foot stack of fresh blue
laundry.
I’m sure I’ve sprayed
the last of the roaches and
what matters is that this tabletop
is littered with new poems.
two drunks fight in the apartment
to the rear, the cats walk
up and down the courtyard
and around the corner
girls sit in massage parlor
doorways
dreaming of love.
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