My poem "Blueshift" is now online at Goblin Fruit. I wrote it for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
time_shark after seeing his design for a new business card, whereupon I commented, "I like the desperate blue eye and your cocky grin. It's a bit of a calling card for the Devil, but it's probably best to warn them up front . . ." and then a poem happened. I may still have taken more words to answer the traditional author's bio question. Go, read: it is a beautifully shadowy issue. I have no idea what the presiding bone-faced beast of the masthead is, but I don't ever want it to follow me down a dark—or a bright—road.
As to last night: I've been sorry since February that there wouldn't be a Big Broadcast this year, because I've loved The Frank Cyrano Byfar Hour since the first time I bought a cherry candy I'd never heard of from a cigarette girl in the aisles of the Somerville Theatre, but I talked an audience member with early-morning commitments into overstaying his curfew for Tomes of Terror: New Arrivals and I wasn't shilling. I got a brief glimpse of the ancient, arcane, all but nameless Library with The Big Broadcast of 1946, hosted then by the sweetly sharp Bookkeeper; this time around we're deep in the stacks with the Archivist (Tom Champion), so endearingly overjoyed to have visitors at last to his dusty little sub-ad-infinitum-basement, he can quite confidently assure us that ages of exposure to so many forbidden and forbidding volumes haven't damaged his reason at all . . . He doesn't give too much away beforehand; he doesn't take away all the sting afterward. "The Shivers on Highway 61" is a solid homage to the days of Lights Out, "The Crasher" a contemporary mood piece. "The Red Line" is pure Boston katabasis. I like it best, but then I would: I am particular about my underworlds and this is a good one. If you're anywhere in the Somerville area tonight or next weekend, it's worth your time. This is still not shilling. I paid for my last night's Cherry Mash.
What I think I have to do now is yardwork, which is not really known for its chthonic value. If I get Anunnaki with my leaf piles, I'll let someone know.
time_shark after seeing his design for a new business card, whereupon I commented, "I like the desperate blue eye and your cocky grin. It's a bit of a calling card for the Devil, but it's probably best to warn them up front . . ." and then a poem happened. I may still have taken more words to answer the traditional author's bio question. Go, read: it is a beautifully shadowy issue. I have no idea what the presiding bone-faced beast of the masthead is, but I don't ever want it to follow me down a dark—or a bright—road.As to last night: I've been sorry since February that there wouldn't be a Big Broadcast this year, because I've loved The Frank Cyrano Byfar Hour since the first time I bought a cherry candy I'd never heard of from a cigarette girl in the aisles of the Somerville Theatre, but I talked an audience member with early-morning commitments into overstaying his curfew for Tomes of Terror: New Arrivals and I wasn't shilling. I got a brief glimpse of the ancient, arcane, all but nameless Library with The Big Broadcast of 1946, hosted then by the sweetly sharp Bookkeeper; this time around we're deep in the stacks with the Archivist (Tom Champion), so endearingly overjoyed to have visitors at last to his dusty little sub-ad-infinitum-basement, he can quite confidently assure us that ages of exposure to so many forbidden and forbidding volumes haven't damaged his reason at all . . . He doesn't give too much away beforehand; he doesn't take away all the sting afterward. "The Shivers on Highway 61" is a solid homage to the days of Lights Out, "The Crasher" a contemporary mood piece. "The Red Line" is pure Boston katabasis. I like it best, but then I would: I am particular about my underworlds and this is a good one. If you're anywhere in the Somerville area tonight or next weekend, it's worth your time. This is still not shilling. I paid for my last night's Cherry Mash.
What I think I have to do now is yardwork, which is not really known for its chthonic value. If I get Anunnaki with my leaf piles, I'll let someone know.
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