Hold it in a high wind. The fender curving over the
breastplate, and all in high gear. I watched to see the
river rise. The forests had all given out their streams
and tributaries. When would the bones of de Soto come
down in the wild rinse? And when would Ponce de Leon
remember Hammerfest?...
Thou art no more than Chinese to me, O Moon! A simian
chorus to you, and let your balls be nibbled by the flirt-
atious hauchinango.
from "Supplication to the Muses on a Trying Day"
What's that you say? I should have posted this picture of Ponce de Leon dreaming of Hammerfest (both the city and the sweet party that is the man himself) while huachinango nibble the balls of the moon, and a simian chorus sings aloud a masterpiece lyric--I should have posted this picture yesterday, in order to give Hart Crane a proper goodbye? Well, I couldn't, I was way too busy drilling these agates like a badass with my new flex shaft!
My God, I feel so full of power. In further heartening news, Tony Williams has decided that the poet we will be celebrating in December is none other than Alfred Tennyson--or, as I like to call him, Tenny Alf Lord Lord Tenny Tenny Alf Alf, because the Lord part confuses me so deeply. Stop reading my mind, Tony! How did you know that I had "Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal" memorized when I was a dewy-faced tween, in order that I might recite it silently to myself when I felt the black bile rising? I will be posting many links pertaining to Lord Son Tenny Tenny Fred Alf Alf tomorrow or the next day, so look forward to that; in the meantime, dozens of Tennyson's poems are available online, in case you want to get started on your costumes early. I am sad to see the Hart Crane party cease, as I feel I devoted some of my best work to him, but I am hopeful that I will receive a few more submissions in December, so that the constant stream of my monotonous obscenities may be interrupted from time to time with your own refreshing interpretations.
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