March 12, 2009
Ready, Set, Flail
Ah, Flint. A bit of the poetic Dada softshoe in us all. Consider it cleaning your clock's collection of rocks so you can go out way early on the Sabbath and root through the crumpled tabloids floating in the park creek for that skipping stone which will never be skipped and will always be treasured untiil the next clock rock collection cleaning.
This was a brief ballpoiint ditty, one of those dingy, banged-up gemstones from similar masterworks in the previous journal. I must admit, it's quite fantastic to browse through the old, forgotten footwork of the past without the crowds and the noise and the heinous hubbub driving you mad.
I only got halfway through Melville's Epic, lost in inches of enthusiastic seafaring bric-a-brac. I envision the man as that one chummy guy who never pukes over the side.
Word is the last few pages are pretty engrossing.