Mama always said Devil'll meet you at the railroad tracks

[sovay]

My poem "Blueshift" is now online at Goblin Fruit. I wrote it for 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.

Comments

[ap-aelfwine.livejournal.com]

Congratulations on the poem going online! I'm looking forward to the rest of the issue.

I'm glad you had such a good time last night.

I hope the yardwork goes well as it can go, with or without Anunnaki. If they do make their appearance, I'll be curious to hear the tale. (If they try to pass themselves off as aliens, I'd vote for telling them they shouldn't have been reading Zecharia Sitchin's books.)

My own yardwork is cancellt for the leaves being yet too wet to mow into mulch. I'll be trying to put together a presentation for Monday instead, as well as essaying to finish that delayed bit of smut with voyeuristic unicorns.

[martianmooncrab.livejournal.com]

now is yardwork, which is not really known for its chthonic value.

oh, its there.. a bit of wind, and up it comes.

[hawkwing-lb.livejournal.com]

That's a gorgeous poem. Just wanted to say.

[time-shark.livejournal.com]

I thank you so much for my calling card poem.

[handful-ofdust.livejournal.com]

Good God, I love the way Goblin Fruit assembles itself--the call-and-response play of images. Foxes, mothers, bones, cards, time, watchful outlaws.

[ashlyme.livejournal.com]

Good poem! The masthead beast is disturbing.

[ajodasso.livejournal.com]

I think I would have preferred yard-work to being hauled out of bed early this morning to help out at my in-laws' coffee shop breakfast after the early Mass in their parish. They have such a wonderful way of not asking first, and the boy is not good at saying no.

(I took one look at that masthead and thought, Oh! It's Epona's bone-yard horse from Alan Moore's "The Highbury Working.")

[asakiyume.livejournal.com]

The wind is blowing the leaves off the trees--they're in the air everywhere, like magic glitter. Soon--it's happening already--there will be hordes of them running in gangs all through the streets. You may start out trying to rake and end up running wild.

Congrats on the poem!