Spotted here, in between the two photos

Where's Dennis Quaid Coming From? He Likes Talking To Blondes, That's All I Know

Page from Harold Gruber via Google Books

Source

I find it beautiful, I found it late (among Billy Wilder dialog and Chinese food)

califone - funeral singers from Califone on Vimeo.

Reversed, Commercialized

http://www.prweb.com/releases/2010/03/prweb3776594.htm

All of My Friends

I didn't
record this song about a half decade ago in Pittsburgh.
Should have, could have.
Then we would have sat on the porch and
had a beer and waited for Alexei to come home.
(Dry throats dry throats oh that feels just right.)
When he would have, he would have
just mumbled something about a wall. So we would have
eaten the rest of the anchovies
with crusty bread and talked about not fishing.

about a half decade ago
Pittsburgh
on the porch
had a beer and waited
for Alexei

he just mumbled something about a wall.

So we ate the rest of the anchovies with crusty bread
and talked

(those days are tucked away like
good records
behind my favorite books, I remember
everything about every room
I ever heard them in)

True or False:

Passive minds are best equipped to be God.

True of False

True of False

Love has two doors—to the present and the ever-changing present. You must use both of them.

True or False:

The joy of being alive is rarely famous.

True or False:

Though beauty is conditional, Marie's face isn't (the unconditional leaves its wake as beauty).

True or False:

For the sake of symmetry some are pitiless in their judgments.

True or False:

Enjoyment of beauty is invention of disparity.

Enjoying

the true and false.

This evening, jet lagged, most seem true.

I'll tune in again tomorrow, searching for the ones

the ones that bend

toward the middle.

Man oh man it would be good

to walk Manhattan with you.

Keep breathing

gold. Phew.

WCW awaits,

and all the others.

Coffees and the goodsnort

of morning, belly rub, fists

in eyes, headlines. I want to wash

all the shadows, all the cornerstalkers

off. All the off

off. Anything Blake

would hate, my 22 year old self

would hate. But love

got me here and

will get me there,

true or false?

Benjamin

Rising.

True or False:

For the ones who reach adulthood cold, analytical skepticism is consolation.

True or False:

Relinquishment of power is love establishing its capacity.

True or False:

Power and self-regard are consolations.

True or False:

Sleeves did not preexist hearts.

True or False:

Your surprise at success is tied to others' desire for you to fail.

True or False:

Inside you is all the challenge.

True or False:

Other people create your wasted life.

True or False:

Thoughtfulness is a rare divide.

True or False:

Backbiters barf wings.

True or False:

At the end of this, shipped wrecks are reassembled.

True or False:

Slugs want salt.

True or False:

Attentional golems decide the celebrities.

True or False:

Hunger creates nobility.

True or False:

Distance is built into unassailable confidence.

True or False:

All the cutest women are home-grown from nature.

True or False:

There was blood already on the snow as it was falling.

I saw something worth mentioning yesterday. I was walking along Fourth Street, on the way back to the office from my lunchtime walk, when I came on a homeless man urinating on a cigarette. When I think back on it, I remember seeing him hunch over as if all the breath had left him. Then he dropped the cigarette half smoked. And then, with faintly bent knees, like someone with a bad back crouching to expel their bowels, fiddled with his fly. A thin leap of piss struck the sidewalk and began wandering its aim to dribble on the mark. A woman who happened to be standing outside the Fuller Building across the street crossed her arms and turned her back. I walked right past. When I looked over my left shoulder, though, he was leaning with one hand pressed to the building, as if the strain had left him half-conscious. He cocked his head my way, as if he could hear eyesight. It was a strange, but subtle enough exchange I almost forgot it.

Tiredness says I'm sweet,

finally,

to the ones I pledged my life to. Cheese
after cheese,

I know,

but seeing the person before you
with the right set of eyes,
activating the right use of body,
conditioning the right silences, the just right
silences

is the only holy god damn thing
we need to do--

Sweetness says I'm tired.

A day the length of a roughed up body.

Useless work is hard work.

Tonight I'm going to blink bourbon and grow olives.

Each olive will be blue and have a pit.

It will be a genuine pit.

It will go round and round between the holding fingers.

It will go down and down like the place they put bodies.

But down at the bottom, the magic is, they're still alive.

And one of them is me looking up and knowing this.

Imagine these are lucky ones,
echoing things--things?--

swathed in unfolding, in confounding when
all other floating

heretofore
is giving, not collecting,
launching or living or
best, the private blind-side that always

comes clean
without prompting.

For a guy like you
sweetness follows

and then tags along
the ankles like, yup,
a pup. We know
what is
by what was
a little longer:
the act, the scene, the gesture
before
they rise, rise, rise
to salute the better shadow.

I imagine there are some lucky ones who
find the thing--the thing!--

sweet in its unfolding, in its combining with
all the other floating data,

away from
recollection, form, languaging, or,
worst, the private build-up that all but guarantees
flat soda.

Come clean.
Okay.

For a guy like me,
what's sweet must surprise

and then run
quickly
away. What was that,

I wonder, that
scent of wildest

. . . ? Let me not
know

a little longer,
god, keeper, author of this tiny
human
applause.
I want to be a better man.

It was

what I imagine
the Titanic of monologues
would be...

so I've been reading all about
The Killing of a Chinese Bookie

and watching
said film.

Cassavetes always
makes me feel better, which
means

more human.

Oh my it was just terrible.

Uncle Benjamin,

Who played the clown, I wonder? Did everyone in attendance, audience and auteurs, wear red noses? Probably. Surely. And the monologue shuffled through the aisles and spoke like a hobo from the 30's, dispensing wisdom like tobacco saliva in a spittoon. The last few breaths of that introduction don't sound like an accident, though. They sound like some definitive statement on behalf of the invisible creative mind at play in the long-gone and currently shrugging and soon-to-be-at-bat masses. The fact that this guy was cut from the film strangely makes him the star of the thing. And that's how it is with everyone. That's what he's saying, I think, when he takes his bow and his bowler hat rolls off his head right into our laps. Like the guillotined head of some oppressive king.

The Executioner of the Important
Sows Smaller Heads
On Larger Bodies,

The Headshrinker A Heart-Enlarger,

but then again
decapitation*
is only an excuse(an
invitation)
for resurrection