RIP Luke Perry. I made this poem back in 2014. Burroughs was convinced that the cut-ups were a form of time travel, and the longer I make them, the less crazy he sounds…
Nothing we’ve done
Not sure what this is yet. But I like it.
Oh no we’re still us
This is one of those rare New Yorker cartoons (by Will McPhail) you clip out and stick on the fridge. I thought about it the other day when I read the obituary for Dean Ford, lead singer of the Marmalade:
I wanted to start over. I wanted a new life. The trouble was, I brought myself with me.
That’s the beginning of a country song, right there. Here’s an old poem of mine to go with it:
It’s like Thoreau wrote in his journal (he could’ve written some country songs):
It matters not where or how far you travel—the farther commonly the worse—but how much alive you are.
Update (5/19/2022): After reposting this recently, several people sent me this hilarious SNL bit:
The cruelest month
“Summer gets to be an old story.”
—Henry David Thoreau
T.S. Eliot called April the cruelest month, but in Austin, Texas, it’s September. Summer is winter here, and summer isn’t even officially over until September 22. The cursed sun pays no heed to anything official. You’re not out of the A/C until Halloween at the earliest. September here is just a cruel joke. When Northern Instagram fills with scarves and pumpkin spice lattes, your only solace is shorts in February. (Awful in its own way.) “Hot and sunny every day,” Bill Hicks mocked. “What are you, a fucking lizard? Only reptiles feel that way about this kind of weather.” It’s nothing right or natural. Nothing to be celebrated. Only endured.
Grand
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