arse poetica

Oh, Really? Cos Barack Obama Built Me a Robot

And baked me a pie. And recited a poem that reminded him of me.

He luuurves me.

Barack Obama Is Your New Bicycle.

Why, Yes, It *is* for Lack of Trying

Damn you, Twitter! You killed my blog! It's easier to write (and think) in snippets, I won't lie. Coupled w/ the holiday crush and a deadline push, not a lot of extra brainspace 'round these parts. And as always, the insanity of our political reality inspires more catatonia than logorrhea.

For a long time I didn't miss the blog, didn't even care, over it. What the hell else could be said about my hate for Donald Rumsfeld? (Given the endless depths of his venality, a lot probably.) Then as my deadline passed from memory and I was able to relax into reading other things, enjoyable things, articles and essays and fiction -- real, honest-to-god fiction! -- and, as always, it made me want to record a little something here and there. A week later, here I am.

Anyhoo, still alive. More latre as the inspiration (or frustration) comes. In the meantime, here's a pretty picture to further signify the unspeakably boring shoegazey nature of this post:

My shoe, my pal JM's coffee table.