Hey kids, While I was picking a poem for you lovely listees to read, I came across the latest issue of Pulse! magazine, and found a TOYBOATS review. It's so bad that I refuse to reprint it, but I will tell you that the adverb count was somewhere in the high 20s (it was only a two paragraph article), and the reviewer especially liked the songs "Spacebaby Dream" and "A Summer Wedding". Hee hee, says me. Onto the poems. I will preface the first by telling you that diverticulitis is a weird illness with which you can't eat any nuts or seeds (no strawberry jam, even), because your colon will swallow them up in tiny pockets in its lining and turn them into little monster appendages. So people who have it freak out if you give them baked goods, knowing you've probably spiked them with seeds inadvertently. The second excerpt is from a poem I found when I was far away from home, and it made me cry. That and sourdough bread were the only things that made me want to go home. And if you've eaten sourdough bread anywhere outside of California, you've only eaten white bread with an inflated ego. AHEM. "Eating the Cookies" by Jane Kenyon, American poet, 1947-1995 The cousin from Maine, knowing about her diverticulitis, left out the nuts, so the cookies weren't entirely to my taste, but they were good enough; yes, good enough. Each time I emptied a drawer or shelf I permitted myself to eat one. I cleared the closet of silk caftans that slipped easily from clattering hangers, and from the bureau I took her nightgowns and sweaters, financial documents neatly cinctured in long gray envelopes, and the hairnets and peppermints she'd tucked among Lucite frames abounding with great-grandchildren, solemn in their Christmas finery. Finally the drawers were empty, the bags full, and the largest cookie, which I had saved for last, lay solitary in the tin with a nimbus of crumbs around it. There would be no more parcels from Portland. I took it up and sniffed it, and before eating it, pressed it against my forehead, because it seemed like the next thing to do. --------
From "San Francisco Blues", by Jack Kerouac:
*37TH CHORUS* I got the San Acisca blues Singin in the street all day I got The San Acisca Blues Wailin in the street all day I better move on, podner, Make my West The Eastern Way- San Fran Cis Co- San Fran Cis Co Oh- ba by *38TH CHORUS* Ever see a tired ba by Cryin to sleep in its mother's arms Wailin all night long while the locomotive Wails on back A cry for a cry In the smoke and the lamp Of the hard ass night That's how I fee- eel- That's how I fee-eel! That's *how* I feel- What a deal! Yes I'm goin ho o ome ------------- Love, Miss Erin P.S. For next week's poem, I pick Abi, the cardie-wearing mouse rescuer who says the Superlambanana is a slide :) ______________________________________________________ Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list please mail "sinister@majordomo.net". To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to "majordomo@majordomo.net". For list archives and searching, list rules, FAQ, poor jokes etc, see http://www.majordomo.net/sinister +---+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" +---+ +-+ "the cardie wearing biscuit nibbling belle & sebastian list" +-+ +----------------------------------------------------------------------+