Rauan.... Rauan... Rauan..... Rauan (O, Reb Livingston)

"Rauan’s difficult time breast feeding"

"Rauan in charge of meat"

"Rauan reduced to meat"

"deep inside Rauan is a swimmer trapped in a mailbox"

"marry me so we can save thousands of dollars on taxes"


Reb Livingston going at it over on her Tumblr

Reaching Out Again (Whore??)

About 6 months ago I deleted, in cold blood, about 90% of my Facebook "Friends." It was a long and tedious process that I thoroughly enjoyed.

(Spread out over a week or two my Friend list dwindled from close to 1700 to under 150.)

But, now, feeling strong again the Whore's blood in me, I am building my Friend base back. Perhaps to two or three times its previous peak.

O, this is so annoying. Sad. Trivial. And exhilarating.

This whoring. Deleting. Destroying. Building back.


O God !!!

Vulturish Bear

Click here to read an interesting, playful, predatory and Romantic poem by J. P. Dancing Bear (Not Persephone)

and funnily enough the poem's dedicated to my old muse "Seth Abramson"

thinking of Seth now I am haunted again by the lines from a sad old Big Country song

what would you be
if the waves set you free
and the wind in your hair
sent you sailing to me

tied up on shore
would you weary no more

what would you be
what would you be



in the old days i would have loaded up all my guns, dynamite, warhorses, wardragons, roosters and mice-- and gone out bear hunting !!

but, now, i just sit by slightly green...

Ed Skoog at The Hugo House

Sometimes poetry reading are like so much clucking, wings waving, an awful and boring mess of feathers and birdshit. But sometimes the clucking quiets. Broods. And produces, magically, an egg. It was like this last night at The Hugo House.

Following an extended warm-up act (5), Ed Skoog stepped on to the stage like John Candy in Stripes' mud-wrestling scene. Stood up there with honest confidence and delivered like the Big Boy kid with cheeseburger.

I'm playing around a bit here because Ed strikes a big, imposing figure. But he's no clown. Dresses well. Like a character out of All The King's Men. Slightly formal. Very polite. And slightly old-fashioned. But clear, warm and open as the poems he read quite imperiously.

Ed Skoog looked like he'd popped into the Pub after a busy afternoon of pheasant shooting. Popped into the pub to snare a few tit bits of Raclette, Goldfish, caviar, smoked duck and, perhaps, a small bowl of spiced artichoke soup.

Ed Skoog read well. Well-paced. And confidently. Smooth as an egg in a fairy tale. A fairy tale tinged perhaps, no, surely, with sadness. O, La Vie, La Vie,...

Dishevelled up a bit, Ed Skoog might have resembled a conductor in one of Prague's tourist-castle concerts.

-------------------


And, so, of course, I ended up trapped in the castle. And could do nothing but stare out the frosty window. Like a bemused child. And there, lo and behold, on the sidewalk was the evening's last piece of magic: Ed Skoog transforming into a goose.

And rising up into the starry night. Honking gently.