Well, I wasn't going to say anything, as I haven't got anything to say (which will be abundantly clear in a few sentences), but then Julie threw that damned parrot at me and now I'm stuck with it and it keeps repeating everything I say, like the little brother I never had, only with more birdshitty newspapers and fewer boogers and considerably broader employment of such phrases as "fucking twat-bird" and "I've got your fucking cracker right here." And so now you're all stuck with a poem of my choosing. God, the power. But first: a shiny nickel (albeit a virtual one, I'm too poor to be distributing actual nickels) to the first person who can identify the book from whence I extracted the following quotation (two nickels if the quotation in context made you cry like a wee child with a skinned knee, which is exactly what it did to me) (inicidentally, it's more poignant if you know going into the quotation that the woman who is speaking is named Alison and the man to whom she's speaking is named Nicholas.): "That reminds me. A crossword clue. I saw it months ago. Ready?" I nodded. "'She's all mixed up, but the better part of Nicholas'... six letters." I worked it out, smiled at her. "Did the clue end in a full-stop or a question-mark?" "It ended in my crying. As usual." Why, I'm whimpering just thinking of it. Which is par for the course lately. I've been awfully weepy these past few weeks, and I'm not sure why. I'm usually so naturally bouyant. My class that meets one tuesday evening is like some long forgotten medieval boredom torture. I'm about to fidget right out of my pants waiting for the new album and single. Awright. The poem. It's by Raymond Carver, who is dead. Deschutes River This sky, for instance: closed, gray, but it has stopped snowing so that is something. I am so cold I cannot bend my fingers. Walking down to the river this morning we surprised a badger tearing a rabbit. Badger had a bloody nose, blood on its snout up to its sharp eyes: prowess is not to be confused with grace. Later, eight mallard ducks fly over without looking down. On the river Frank Sandmeyer trolls, trolls for steelhead. He has fished this river for years but February is the best month he says. Snarled, mittenless, I handle a maze of nylon. Far away -- another man is raising my children, bedding my wife bedding my wife. I have decided that I could just read Raymond Carver's poems forever. I've decided that before, too. But I forget things. That said, I hurl this rude, rude parrot into western Pennsylvania, specifically the custody of one Marie Elia. Do your worst, little arsonist. love will (not the new one anymore) +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the undead Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo@missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "tech-heads and students" +-+ +-+ "the cardie wearing biscuit nibbling belle & sebastian list" +-+ +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +----------------------------------------------------------------------+