
Monday, March 9, 2009
Albino Dolphin

Wednesday, March 4, 2009
PHISH RETURNS! PHISH RETURNS! PHISH RETURNS!

Each musical note hangs in the air-
Technicolor reds, greens, and blues in neon flair.
The notes become tunes that soak into my head,
Then seep down until my feet hang like lead.
We all sway like seaweed, from left to right,
as the sets of waves engulf the night.
I feel a surge of passion and look around,
to see mile long glow chains snake through the crowd.
I am alone in a sea of 70,000 drifting phans
Who like me, are wasting their time for the love of the band.
A building passion, the glow lights are thrown.
Everybody's dancing at a place I once called home.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Boy, 13, allegedly killed his brother to take over their drug ring

Love Deb
Jordan Mendes was found shot, stabbed 27 times and dumped into a pit, police say. The boys inherited the Cape Cod, Mass., business from their father, who is in prison.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air. . . .
Up, up the long, delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or ever eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
— John Gillespie Magee, J
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Michael Jackson's Moonwalker Head Goes on the Auction Block


Aimless Love

I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.
In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.
This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.
The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.
No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.
No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then
for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.
But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.
After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,
so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.
Billy Collins