BILLY COLLINS, HARRY MATHEWS BATTLE IN MARCH MADNESS EAST SEMI-FINAL

the idiocy of rural life” –Karl Marx

let the young Lambs bound”  –Wordsworth

Lines Composed Over Three Thousand Miles From Tintern Abbey

I was here before, a long time ago,
and now I am here again
is an observation that occurs in poetry
as frequently as rain occurs in life.

The fellow may be gazing
over an English landscape,
hillsides dotted with sheep,
a row of tall trees topping the downs,

or he could be moping through the shadows
of a dark Bavarian forest,
a wedge of cheese and a volume of fairy tales
tucked into his rucksack.

But the feeling is always the same.
It was better the first time.
This time it is not nearly as good.
I’m not feeling as chipper as I did back then.

Something is always missing—
swans, a glint on the surface of a lake,
some minor but essential touch.
Or the quality of things has diminished.

The sky was a deeper, more dimensional blue,
clouds were more cathedral-like,
and water rushed over rock
with greater effervescence.

From our chairs we have watched
the poor author in his waistcoat
as he recalls the dizzying icebergs of childhood
and mills around in a field of weeds.

We have heard the poets long dead
declaim their dying
from a promontory, a riverbank,
next to a haycock, within a copse.

We have listened to their dismay,
the kind that issues from poems
the way water issues forth from hoses,
the way the match always gives its little speech on fire.

And when we put down the book at last,
lean back, close our eyes,
stinging with print,
and slip in the bookmark of sleep,

we will be schooled enough to know
that when we wake up
a little before dinner
things will not be nearly as good as they once were.

Something will be missing
from this long, coffin-shaped room,
the walls and windows now
only two different shades of gray,

the glossy gardenia drooping
in its chipped terra-cotta pot.
And on the floor, shoes, socks,
the browning core of an apple.

Nothing will be as it was
a few hours ago, back in the glorious past
before our naps, back in that Golden Age
that drew to a close sometime shortly after lunch.

Billy Collins (1998, Hollander)

Histoire

Tina and Seth met in the midst of an overcrowded militarism.
“Like a drink?” he asked her. “They make great Alexanders over at the Marxism-Leninism.”
She agreed. They shared cocktails. They behaved cautiously, as in a period of pre-fascism.
Afterwards he suggested dinner at a restaurant renowned for its Maoism.
“O.K.,” she said, but first she had to phone a friend about her ailing Afghan, whose name was Racism.
Then she followed Seth across town past twilit alleys of sexism.

The waiter brought menus and announced the day’s specials. He treated them with condescending sexism,
So they had another drink. Tina started her meal with a dish of militarism,
While Seth, who was hungrier, had a half portion of stuffed baked racism.
Their main dishes were roast duck for Seth, and for Tina broiled Marxism-Leninism.
Tina had pecan pie a la for dessert, Seth a compote of stewed Maoism.
They lingered. Seth proposed a liqueur. They rejected sambuca and agreed on fascism.

During the meal, Seth took the initiative. He inquired into Tina’s fascism,
About which she was reserved, not out of reticence but because Seth’s sexism
Had aroused in her a desire she felt she should hide – as though her Maoism
Would willy-nilly betray her feelings for him. She was right. Even her deliberate militarism
Couldn’t keep Seth from realizing that his attraction was reciprocated. His own Marxism-Leninism
Became manifest, in a compulsive way that piled the Ossa of confusion on the Pelion of racism.

Next, what? Food finished, drinks drunk, bills paid – what racism
Might not swamp their yearning in an even greater confusion of fascism?
But women are wiser than words. Tina rested her hand on his thigh and, a-twinkle with Marxism-Leninism,
Asked him, “My place?” Clarity at once abounded under the flood-lights of sexism,
They rose from the table, strode out, and he with the impetuousness of young militarism
Hailed a cab to transport them to her lair, heaven-haven of Maoism.

In the taxi he soon kissed her. She let him unbutton her Maoism
And stroke her resilient skin, which was quivering with shudders of racism.
When beneath her jeans he sense the superior Lycra of her militarism,
His longing almost strangled him. Her little tongue was as potent as fascism
In its elusive certainty. He felt like then and there tearing off her sexism
But he reminded himself: “Pleasure lies in patience, not in the greedy violence of Marxism-Leninism.”

Once home, she took over. She created a hungering aura of Marxism-Leninism
As she slowly undressed him where he sat on her overstuffed art-deco Maoism,
Making him keep still, so that she could indulge in caresses, in sexism,
In the pursuit of knowing him. He groaned under the exactness of her racism
– Fingertip sliding up his nape, nails incising his soles, teeth nibbling his fascism.
At last she guided him to bed, and they lay down on a patchwork of Old American militarism.

Biting his lips, he plunged his militarism into the popular context of her Marxism-Leninism,
Easing one thumb into her fascism, with his free hand coddling the tip of her Maoism,
Until, gasping with appreciative racism, both together sink into the revealed glory of sexism.

Harry Mathews (1988, Ashbery)

These two remarkable poems show that optimistic humor is ideally suited to poetry.  This sometimes gets lost amid the elegy and experimentation which  dominates modern verse.

There’s a bright, snappy, Enlightenment verve to poems like these.  Both Collins and Mathews slay dug-in sensibilities—Collins explodes the nostalgic notion of the good old days, or good old golden age, while Mathews has fun with the high-church seriousness of political beliefs.

Here is wit, but not the brief variety; these authors take stock of their subject first, and draw the reader in with conversational intimacy.  They convince with repetition, they accomplish their aim by placing their art within a frame of inevitability, but within that frame is a rhetorical looseness; one could fault Collins for the awful line, “as frequently as rain occurs in life” but this would be to miss the point.  Such ‘badness’ contributes to the necessary looseness, which in turn contributes to the trust between author and reader; such badness is like air in food which gives it lightness.  Mathews is under the same burden; the joke of his poem forbids elegant rhetoric from occuring, but the details add up differently, badly, in fact, but this is how the joke must work and the joke works in the only way it can, by distorting details for the sake of the whole, which adds up to satire against another existence, one smoother, apparently, than the Mathews poem, that of political pretense.

There has been some discussion behind the scenes of Scarriet lately on the nature of poetry, for when a large variety of poems are forced to compete, as in this March Madness tournament, one naturally begins to wrestle with the question of not only which of the poems is better, but which of the two is more like a poem. Why this question: which one is more like a poem? should even arise, I do not know, but it is almost as if, when we are faced with two poems we enjoy equally, to choose the best, we fall back on this question, it being human nature, or perhaps the nature of thought itself, to slightly favor whatever is more universal over what is more particular.

To be brief: a poem is, in words, whatever takes place in a certain space.

How do words make something take place and how do words create a certain space?

Meter and rhyme can create their own artificial space (a stanza) without the words having to mean anything.  Poems have traditionally featured a series of stanzas in which meaning is conveyed.

But meaning itself can create space—without stanzas.  Stanzas made it necessary for meter and rhyme and even the verse line to exist; not the other way around.  Most of us assume that the stanza is a mere outgrowth of the line, when the reverse is true: the stanza actually came first.  The stanza is the space, the room, in which poetry behaves as poetry.

All modern forms follow from this idea.  In today’s poetry, the room, or space (stanza) and things taking place within that room or space, (stanza- action) occur more frequently in word-meaning rather than word-sound.  I think this sums up the whole matter quite nicely.   The Divine Comedy has more rooms and more occurances, but otherwise is the same, in terms of form and content, as the haiku.

Billy Collins carves out space like so:

Something will be missing
from this long, coffin-shaped room,
the walls and windows now
only two different shades of gray

As long as Collins works in stanzas, he doesn’t really need the line, or he can get away with lines of no interest whatsoever, such as “the walls and windows now.”    His lines can have no interest, the lines of a Billy Collins poem can be invisible, more or less, as long as he uses stanzas; few critics really understand how Collins’ poetry can even work. These critics are blind to the stanza-principle and in their blindness dismiss Collins as middle-brow fluff, going so far as to say that it is not  poetry at all.  The error involves the false belief that the line precedes, and gives rise to, stanza when, in fact, the reverse is true.  The fact that Billy Collins is successful without bothering to write good lines is proof of the thesis here outlined: the stanza, (the room) not the line (sequential unit), is the essence of poetry.

Highly musical poetry can be stanza poetry. Prose can also be stanza poetry.   The advocates of the line tend to favor either the highly musical poem or the highly prosaic poem, but not both.

Simple folk with no theory enjoy both. For the over-learned, too proud to enjoy Billy Collins, or too cutting-edge to enjoy Shelley, I have just provided a way out of your essential confusion; likewise for the formalists who cannot reconcile in their minds a Shelley and a Collins.

One might have a tendency then, to choose the Mathews over the Collins because “Histoire” by Mathews is a sestina, and features language with more repetition, and thus would appear to be more poetic, but this is to put a minor principle (with some merit) before philosophy plus perception (which has a great deal more).

Billy Collins is the winner.

15 Comments

  1. Billy Collins said,

    March 25, 2010 at 12:35 am

    Brilliant! Nice to see someone gets this. I hope you
    don’t mind if I use this in my defense.

    BC

    • thomasbrady said,

      March 25, 2010 at 11:02 am

      Billy,

      A friend tells me you’re something of a Mingus on the keyboard. Harold Bloom needs a concert.

      The Improviser v. The Memorizer

      The defense, of course, is yours.

      Thanks for visiting!

      Tom

  2. Desmond Swords said,

    March 25, 2010 at 7:03 am

    Lines Composed Three Thousand Miles From Boston

    It was there before, a short time ago,
    three thousand miles away

    and now I am here again

    …’it’s an observation that occurs in poetry
    as frequently as rain occurs in life’
    .

    Yes, colleagues gazing over AmPo landscapes,
    hillsides dotted with real estate

    sheep, tall tales and tree-topping clowns,

    moping in the shadows
    of a dark Boston forest,
    a sheaf of reading material
    volumes of faery tale
    tucked into their rucksacks
    in apple pie order.

    ‘But the feeling is always the same.
    It was better the first time.
    This time it is not nearly as good.’

    Oh dear, not feeling as chipper as you did back then.
    is it something that’s always missing, pre Christian

    glint on the surface of a swan-wing beating
    some minor but essential touch.

    ‘the quality of things has diminished.
    The sky was a blue, where cloud-rushed over rock

    the water more cathedral-like, deeper, more significant
    reputation, effervescence to one’s chair we covet,

    watch, observe plotting from afar in silence, unseen
    dimensional oomph, a poor author in this ‘waistcoat

    as you recall the dizzying iceberg of childhood
    and mill around in a field of weeds’

    hear the poets long dead declaim their dying
    in a glorious Golden Age of American poetry

    ‘We have listened to their dismay,
    the kind that issues from poems
    the way water issues forth from hoses,
    the way the match always gives its little speech on fire.’

    BC, the promontory on a riverbank,
    wall-shaped room in different shades of gray goods
    as they once were, before something went amiss

    in this long Collin’s piece of **** ‘next to a haycock

    within a copse’.

    And when I think of putting down at last the book,
    the book at last leaning back – closed our eyes

    on the floor with a browning apple core
    schooled in sleep-stinging back in that ship

    that drew to a close sometime with print,
    and slip of bookmark between the we

    enough to know we’ll be awakened
    before a little dinner where things will
    be said about a terra-cotta pot,
    windows, walls and two glossy flowers
    drooping socks, nothing will be as it was

    a few hours ago, shooed back in past
    before and shortly after our launch

    a hey ho and nonny nonny no – yes –
    oh dear come be

    me an anonymous middle class poet
    who sprung from the bourgeoisie

    BC or AD it’s abracadabra Connelly
    Billy Connelly the comedian-poet

    banjo playing Glaswegian – bonds
    James Bond and Sir Sean Connery

    Edinburgh milkman, a tenement
    dweller whose name is Sean, Sir

    William Bond, parishoner in a kirk
    of King Collins from Sam’s Cross

    Cuchulain be his name
    thy word will be done as a Cork

    parishoner in Thomand’ ward
    bardic words you will come, bill,

    pay up, give me your talent
    let the two of us love William

    butler Collins of the parish Boston
    **** off it Collins, you are a ****

  3. Desmond Swords said,

    March 25, 2010 at 7:30 am

    Name above one’s own, mister Collins. Please, forgive my flyting. I was unaware you had entered the blog and deposited a piece of ****.

    I have been trying to flyte with the finest Britons and Americans all this last while, and please, read Amergin’s untitled advice that’s as significant – if not more so – than Horace’s Ars Poetica.

    First translated in 1979, the 7C Old Irish orginal – some suspect – was the first textual how-to students at bard-school in N. Britain and the neighbouring mainland, for the 1200 tears of its life and, in this – bardic – tradition mister Collins, this **** is an abracadabraists dream come true, because it is our poetic blue-print for dán – poetry, gift-talent-vocation, fate-destiny as a unitary concept.

    The text poses a question, ‘where is the root of poetry in a person, their body or soul’ – and answers it with such perfect logic, pure poetry it is all the Apologia needed to make green the faux and appall the peace, take back beauty and fall indeed, in with eyes and ears Billy mate. I’m yr worst fan, I never spend on any American but the worst in Llangpo Anglesy, at the pubs by the side of the road leading to a ferry terminal where **** poets effortelssly slip invisibly into the history books as… i dunno.

    love and peace

    gra agus siochain

    (“a man can’t drown whose dán’s to be hanged”) poetry contextualized as life by Amergin of AmPo: Thou shall spend on Eric Landon and Frieda Maraya, two **** made up names in the game of appearing as/is

    Isn’t it ******* patronizing you pleasant **** swiftly heading bardic Billy can I have your dough – all of it Collins – hand it over please and let’s read again the wonderful approximation of truth twisted into a frame of truth by your gift, mister Colins: annointed in the Cauldron of Poesy, link, arise

    ollamh.

  4. Desmond Swords said,

    March 25, 2010 at 7:33 am

    Forgive the slip, the question should read: Where is the root of poetry in a person – in the body or soul?

    (not ‘there is the root of poetry in a person’)

  5. Bob Tonucci said,

    March 25, 2010 at 12:49 pm

    “… But I never really understand your university friends. Why do they quarrel so?”

    “It doesn’t mean anything,” said Maria. “It’s just that they can’t bear anybody else to have an advantage, even for a moment….”

    — from the novel “The Lyre of Orpheus” by Robertson Davies

  6. Christopher Woodman said,

    March 25, 2010 at 1:57 pm

    I don’t think Desmond was just trying “to have an advantage,” Bob. I think he was just doing what he calls “flyting.” Indeed, it’s a kind of rhapsody on Collins, even the first comment, even with all the disrespect.

    A whole lot better than fawning.

    I myself would be delighted to have someone rap on my work like that!

  7. Christopher Woodman said,

    March 27, 2010 at 3:17 am

    Just a bit more on that, Bob. Desmond is saying this — it’s worth rereading with some bold:

    The text poses a question, ‘where is the root of poetry in a person, their body or soul’ – and answers it with such perfect logic, pure poetry it is all the Apologia needed to make green the faux and appall the peace, take back beauty and fall indeed, in with eyes and ears Billy mate. I’m yr worst fan, I never spend on any American but the worst in Llangpo Anglesy, at the pubs by the side of the road leading to a ferry terminal where **** poets effortelssly slip invisibly into the history books as… i dunno.

    If I were Billy Collins I’d be thrilled to have a “worst fan” like that. And Desmond is writing from Dublin, of course, and I think we Americans need to wake up to the fact that poets over there do see us like this, that all our poetry roads do seem to lead to that sort of terminal.

    And who could ever say what is it?

  8. Bob Tonucci said,

    March 28, 2010 at 9:59 am

    Lateral Disregard

    Harry Mathews

    after an observation by Kenneth Koch

    Shall I compare thee to a summer’s bay
    an orange cliff rising from its waters to the east
    to the west a slope of reddish earth whorled with gray olives
    between them an arc of rock, then sand, then little port
    four houses of blue-washed rubble and red-tile roofs
    and below them under broad-leaved vines a terrace with tables and benches
    from which at noon the smoke of golden bream grilling
    brings a gust of longing to the wayfarer as he looks over the bay
    from a bluff down which a dusty zigzag path
    leads to a straggly cluster of fig trees near the water’s edge
    (their first fruits now ripened in July sun)
    to whose left on flat rocks ample nets have been drying
    to whose right on the sand — green, yellow, green, red — four fishing craft
    rest through the languid hours of the blue day
    only at night taking to the clear dark waters
    through which their bow-lights beckon curious fish
    for nets to scoop from their nimble careers
    to be shaken over the decks in slithering heaps
    and at dawn the boats coast home between brighter blues
    the glory of the world suffuses earth stone and leaf
    land and sea reaffirm their distinction
    in an exchange so gentle that the wayfarer briefly believes
    he has been suspended lastingly in newborn light
    the happiness and rightness of the morning
    no longer dreaming plowing on through thick mud?

  9. April 25, 2010 at 12:55 am

    *Lines On An Unremarkable Ear*

    I was here before, a long time ago (how about lose “before”, “a” and “time”?),
    and now I am here again
    is an observation that occurs in poetry (and cut that “is”)
    as frequently as rain occurs in (“to”) life (as though it can occur elsewhere; try “Portland”).

    The fellow may be gazing (stronger minus “may be”)
    over an English landscape,
    hillsides (“hills”) dotted (“tufted” would have been nice) with sheep,
    a row (“rows”) of tall trees topping the downs (don’t think “tall” is necessary; specific type of trees more vivid),

    or he could be moping through the shadows (try: “or he’s moping toward shadows”)
    of a dark Bavarian forest (do we need those “shadows” in the “dark”?) ,
    a wedge of cheese (“a sweating cheese”) and a volume of fairy tales
    tucked (“pressed”) into his rucksack.

    But the feeling is always the same.
    It was better the first time.
    This time it is not nearly as good (how many times can we say “time”?).
    I’m not feeling as chipper (ugh) as I did back (lose “back”) then.

    Something is always missing (those chiming “ings”)—
    swans, a glint on the surface of a lake (as opposed to on its bottom),
    some minor but (why “minor but”?) essential touch.
    Or the quality of things has diminished (without that “has” it might have sung).

    The sky was a deeper (“fleshy” would be cooler), more dimensional blue,
    clouds were (lose “were”) more cathedral-like (lose “like”),
    and water rushed over (“smoothed”) rock
    with greater effervescence (Schweppes?).

    From our chairs we have watched
    the poor author in his waistcoat (“the author in his rags”)
    as he recalls the dizzying (“blinding”) icebergs of childhood
    and mills around (“wheels” instead of “mills around”) in a field of (“through waist-high” instead of “in a field of”) weeds.

    We have heard the poets long dead (try “long-elapsed”)
    declaim their dying
    from a (the) promontory, a (the) riverbank,
    next to a (by the) haycock, within a (lose within a; “the” )copse. (grandiloquent-yet-flat: a paradox?)

    We have listened to their dismay,
    the kind that issues from poems
    the way water issues forth (or just plain “issues” or how about “pours”) from hoses,
    the way the match always gives its little (extraneously folksy adjective) speech on fire.

    And when we put down (“drop” instead of “put down”) the book at last,
    lean back, close our eyes (“eyes shut”),
    stinging with print (ourselves or our eyes?),
    and slip in (“and finger”) the bookmark of sleep,

    we will be schooled enough (lose “enough”) to know
    that when we wake up (lose “up”)
    a little before dinner
    things will not be nearly (lose “nearly”) as good as they once (“once” is extraneous) were.

    Something will be missing (“something will miss”)
    from this long (lose “long”), coffin-shaped room,
    the walls and windows now
    only two different shades of gray,

    the glossy gardenia drooping
    in its chipped terra-cotta pot.
    And on the floor, shoes, socks,
    the browning core (“spine”) of an apple.

    Nothing will be as it (lose “it”) was
    a few (lose “a few”; use “just”) hours ago, back in the (lose “back in”) glorious past
    before our naps, back in (lose “back in” again) that Golden Age
    that drew to a close sometime shortly (lose “sometime shortly”) after lunch.

    –Billy Collins (1998, Hollander)

    ****SO****NOW:

    *Improved Lines On An Unremarkable Ear*

    I was here, long ago
    and now I am here again
    an observation that occurs in poetry
    as frequently as rain occurs to Portland

    The fellow gazing
    over an English landscape,
    hills tufted with sheep,
    rows of Ash topping the downs,

    or he’s moping toward shadows
    of a Bavarian forest ,
    sweating cheese and a volume of fairy tales
    pressed in his rucksack.

    But the feeling is always the same.
    It was better the first.
    This is not nearly as good.
    I’m not feeling as here as I did then.

    Something is always missed:
    swans, glints of lake,
    some essential touch.
    Or the quality of things diminished.

    The sky was a fleshy, more dimensional blue,
    clouds more cathedral,
    and water smoothed rock
    with greater tumult.

    From our chairs we have watched
    the author in his rags
    as he recalls the blinder icebergs of childhood and
    wheels through waist-high weeds.

    We have heard the poets long-elapsed
    declaim their dying
    from the promontory, the riverbank,
    by the haycock, the copse.

    We have listened to their dismay,
    the kind that issues from poems
    the way water pours from hoses,
    the way the match always wastes its speech on fire.

    And when we drop the book at last,
    lean back, eyes shut tight against
    the sting of print,
    and finger the bookmark of sleep,

    we will be schooled to know
    on waking
    a little before dinner that
    things will not be good as they were.

    Something will be missed
    from this coffin-shaped room,
    the walls and windows now
    only two shades of gray,

    the glossy gardenia drooping
    in its chipped terra-cotta pot.
    And on the floor, shoes, socks,
    the browning spine of an apple.

    Nothing will be as was
    just hours ago, the glorious past
    before our naps, that Golden Age
    that drew to its close after lunch.

    –Billy Collins (1998, Hollander)

  10. thomasbrady said,

    April 25, 2010 at 12:36 pm

    Steven,

    You ruin the poem in the first stanza. Why would you mention Portland? Portland?? Now you’ve got the reader thinking about…Portland…and that’s not what Billy wants the reader to do at all….

    Why would you want to add Portland to this poem?

    Tell me what you were thinking!

    Portland???

    Gadzooks!

    Tom

  11. April 25, 2010 at 2:04 pm

    Nah, if Billy thinks “English landscape” is more “poetic” than “Portland”, he has a middlebrow ear of purest imitation vinyl (but I knew that already). Why shouldn’t the reader think of “Portland” for a moment, there… it’s a more surprising choice than the sophomoric pairing of “Bavarian forest” and “fairytale”.

    Collins’ orig. poem isn’t much of a poem (it lacks *talented* poetry’s necessary concision and any evidence of ability in the realm of word-choice), it’s just a clunky little boilerplate snippet of pseudo-philosophy: ie: really Billy? We never step in the same river twice? Is that why not-entirely-well-read politicians like your Greeting Cards… because they kinda make you “think”? I made that crap sing, baby. But I don’t expect to be thanked for that! Laugh

    As you can see, I didn’t come here to agree! (laugh again). But I enjoyed the Poe article…

  12. April 25, 2010 at 5:28 pm

    Well, looks like I won’t get a response on this one, so I’ll finish my thoughts on it and bugger off (unless summoned):

    “Collins explodes the nostalgic notion of the good old days, or good old golden age…”

    With a shrug says, “Hey, you can’t step in the same river twice; nothing to get ‘mopey’ over!”

    Irony in poetry (like emails) needs a key, internal to the poem, to work; a dissonant signal (like, erm, “Portland”?) that divides the text at least in two: the “send-up” vs “intended meaning”. Otherwise, Billy is counting on us to know a little something about Billy’s outlook in order to measure the intended degree and target of the irony. The word “moping” does not, in and of itself, indicate that the moper is falling for one of the more insidious traps of Classicism.

    It’s my opinion that choosing between a crappy poem, and a better one, to make the same point: why not opt for the better one? With vital, rather than banal, language. Why take aim at a middlebrow misapprehension with a middlebrow poem? Is it the convention of talking down to the anti-intellectual American reader that enforces an unspoken rule that formal richness/variety/invention can’t deliver the “message” without causing sales to drop?

    “…one could fault Collins for the awful line, “as frequently as rain occurs in life” but this would be to miss the point. Such ‘badness’ contributes to the necessary looseness, which in turn contributes to the trust between author and reader; such badness is like air in food which gives it lightness.”

    Tom, I think one could rescue any shiddy pome with this maneuver; what’s the point? This is just tortuous Crappist Apologia.

    “As long as Collins works in stanzas, he doesn’t really need the line, or he can get away with lines of no interest whatsoever, such as “the walls and windows now.” His lines can have no interest, the lines of a Billy Collins poem can be invisible, more or less, as long as he uses stanzas; few critics really understand how Collins’ poetry can even work.”

    Billy’s poems “work” by being harmless/unchallenging and mediocrity-affirming to an intellectually-insecure (in fact: hostile) public with zero tolerance for being educated in anything other than career-advancing topics. Billy’s pomes are very long greeting cards; some more clever than others. What’s the mystery? And the ugly part is the “if so many people like it, it must be good” swagger that means Big Time Professional Wrestling is better than a 60-minute interview with Eric Satie. Well, fine. What can I do about that? No biggie. I’ll just bitch about it when the subject comes up. Like now!

  13. thomasbrady said,

    April 25, 2010 at 5:49 pm

    I replied to you on “Look What I Found!”

    Great having you here!

  14. drew said,

    October 12, 2013 at 8:14 pm

    Ummm – I like Maoism too…
    http://connecthook.wordpress.com/2013/02/16/%E2%98%AD-a-chicken-in-ever-pol-pot/

    yeah – I know am about 3 years late on this thread…


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: