Wish I made this, had to share.
The middle-aged man
who cannot make love to his wife
with the erectile authority of yesteryear
must lower his head and suck her breasts
with the tenderness and acumen of Walt Whitman.
And if the woman has lost her breasts
to the surgeon and his silver knife,
she must hump the man’s leg in the dark bedroom
like a rodeo bronco rider.
Let them be hard and wet again, respectively.
Let them convince, and be convinced.
It is the kind of heroic performance
that no one will ever mention.
It is the part of the journey where the staircase gets narrow
and you must turn sideways to pass.
Over the earth the clouds mutate and roll.
The trees catch their breath for another try.
Wind rips through the dried-out grass
with a threshing sound.
The man is going under the covers.
The woman letting him.
Both of them refusing
to be stopped by shame.
All that talk about love, and This
is what that word was pointing at.
- Tony Hoagland, from Unincorporated Persons In The Late Honda Dynasty
|—||Lt Cmdr Data inadvertently describing a reasonable Tuesday night|
"But the outfit of the contemporary video game nerd is a stab at a hip-hop ensemble. At some point in the legendary gangsta past, the baggy look alluded to the concealment of contraband, but now it’s an attempt to hide the body. It’s the adolescent equivalent of a comb-over, a look that’s designed to cover a structural problem but worsens the whole package because it’s clearly obfuscatory."
I’m devoting the next couple weeks to the entire Hoagy Carmichael catalog. How one man wrote so much of the great American songbook is completely astonishing. In this adorable tune, two tired lovers badly wish to fall asleep but loathe the thought of being apart - even if it’s only in consciousness.
THE SPIRITS OF RHYTHM - Dr. Watson & Mr. Holmes
Sherlock Holmes & trad-jazz, together at last. Not to mention Wellman Braud’s rippin’ bass solo. Everything’s coming up Riffy.