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I lived for a time on Red Square in Berkeley. You may have heard of it. It was run by Von Rotten (that’s just plain Von), who was considered the Vladimir Lenin of the Foul Language Movement of Poetry (FLMP, pronounced “Flimp.”) They even went so far
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Romper Room with Beer
We go out for a thin New York Pizza at Lanesplitter’s over on Telegraph and watch the drunks staggering out of the bar across the street to have a smoke on the sidewalk, since you can’t smoke inside bars anymore. They ga
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Ice Shelf the Size of Manhattan
Breaks Off Canadian Island
And they started building all over it immediately. Especially on the upper East Side, snobs with actual blue blood in their veins. Bearded taxi drivers mumbling in 56 languages began run
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Flying Piece of Art Causes Chaos in Switzerland
(from news article, with some additions)
A giant inflatable dog turd by an American artist blew away from an exhibition in the garden of a Swiss Museum, bringing down a power line and breaking a gree
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Two writers sat down for a meal, carefully avoiding any talk of their art.
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Other womenother writershave not hadthis easy lifethat I endure.Struggling tolive by theirwits, their workthe klink of coinsin their handswhat they haveearned themselves.Children thy haveraisedperhaps raisingthemselves;neglected, alone.Or not havingenoughto eat, to read.My…
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A famous author and an inspired writer meet at a coffee shop, both looking for inspiration. The patrons there don’t know if this meeting is by accident or design, but they are in awe of Fame.
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“That’s just Ryan W. Bradley—son of a bitch knows better by now.”
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“I’m a sucker for a good first sentence but I won’t dismiss the whole work based on a bad one. Besides, anybody with an MFA can write a decent first sentence. You can’t judge the whole work based on that.”
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He knew just by looking at me that I had hit bottom. My guardian angel. I read that poem crinkled up in my pocket ten times a day.
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