When you finish reading Cannery Row by Steinbeck, you realize that all that revolutionary casual causal-surrealist narrative stuff Brautigan conjures have has striking derivations. Also completed that classic, “everybody else has read it,” Of Mice and Men. Now I’ve got this damn The Virgin and the Gypsy on my hands, roaming around in circles; no wonder why D. H. Lawrence kept it secret–not only is that grizzly nonconformist jugular content breathing through its opening pages, but the tonal style is swept up with a broom Henry Miller must’ve touched–or vice versa . . .
On another note, started to build a tax of images, sort of a configurable house of cards, that will match or semi-match, a tax of prosody that’s seeping from this ol’ sack of skin. And Lorca’s found a perch on the shoulder now, too, providing nightly poetry empowerment. And just new as I write this, the world has been overcome with Girl Talk’s latest album, released free here. There is a certain enjoyment gained through the highlighting stimulant streams found deep within the Parliament Full Flavor / Iced Coffee (a la the Bristol Beehive, and friends Mitch and Kyle) thought processes–the bump bump beat flashes the lights and burns them out cyclically.
The Fourth of July is already on its way here in great Bristol, Rhode Island. There is no doubt the music will explode, finally bringing the chain-link society of Hope Street, the warped black hole syndrome of Wood Street, and the peaceful flora ritz fest of High Street into holy union. Mixed Emotions will be coming, too. Dear God, none of us can wait.
gbem1