In the Guardian yesterday, Harold Bloom with a typically weary & mournful analysis of the contemporary American political scene, thru the lens of the writers of the American Renaissance. Money quote: "Though he possesses a Yale BA and honorary doctorate, our president is semi-literate at best. He once boasted of never having read a book through, even at Yale. Henry James was affronted when he met President Theodore Roosevelt; what could he have made of George W Bush?"
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World O' Crap continues a indefatigable Augean stable-cleaning job of keeping up with what the loonies are saying about just about everything, including most recently Brokeback Mountain.
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Rue Hazard remains dark; perhaps John is off writing some more poems (which I ought to be doing).
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John Matthias's "Automystifstical Plaice," a fine and zany poem on Hedy Lamarr, George Antheil, Ezra Pound, Francis Picabia, the internet, wireless telephones, etc. etc. is now online. Go and read, and know modernism is alive and kicking. (Thanks to Bob for the tip.)
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Josh Corey has read and is enthusiastic over Michael Coffey's CMYK. I concur, wholeheartedly. Josh describes the book admirably, but I can't resist another snippet, this from the journal-poem "Datebook 2002":
sa/1/5: Today, partly cloudy and warmer, high 40; tonight, turning cloudy, low 32.
Today, abundant sunshine, high 37. Tonight, clear and chilly, low 29; a weak jet stream disturbance passing overhead.
Andy Warhol drew a picture of Frank O'Hara's penis. O'Hara crumpled it up.
Painting was slow for a mind that fast; shopping, however, was quick.
Her legs scissored, open and closed, like Hélène Cixous.
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