Return of The Queue?
In the abstract, I wish I knew much more about poetry. I suspect the whole of Robert Frost is pap, but I have neither the experience nor the jargon for a proper evisceration. I'd like to speak eloquently of the profundity of Longfellow. Back in the all-too-concrete world, however, I've neither the time nor the inclination to delve seriously into poetry. I have problems enough with prose. I've recently, after a layoff of nearly a year, finished Richard Matheson's I Am Legend, leaving me all the more frustrated and flustered by the trio of horrible, fatally flawed film adaptations, The Last Man on Earth (Vincent Price, 1964), The Omega Man ("The Actor" Charlton Heston, 1971), and I Am Legend (Will Smith, 2007). What is the point of an "adaptation" in which the central point of the original work is changed utterly or discarded entirely? Just make up a brand new story, you parasites! But I disgress. I'm reading the non-fiction The Endurance by Caroline Alexander, with vague notions of resuming Suspension by Richard E. Crabbe (which serves as a great inspiration for Project TROIKA, as throughout the first half I rolled by eyes at the naked clichés and thought Surely I can do better than this!) and reading John Toland's The Great Dirigibles.

Books are back, baby, though for the foreseeable future poetry will continue to take a distant backseat to prose.

The Rebel Black Dot Christmas Song of the Day
Fountains of Wayne, "The Man in the Santa Suit" from Out-of-State Plates, Disc Two (T.L.A.M.)

Commentary: "He knows, he knows, he knows, life can be funny."