Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground is one of the best songs ever written. God bless Willie Nelson.
Jeff Snowbarger
@buffalowallow.bsky.social
Writer. Prof. Splitter of wood. Words in Tin House, Orion, Slate…Co-editor Midwest Review.
Bob Dylan on the road slinging songs that matter now as much as ever—Masters of War, Blind Willie McTell, Desolation Row
Sorry but I rate poetry not on inspirational wittiness but the degree to which it ravages me
All this talk of suits reminded me of this: “Clive never wore neckties under the conviction that all of the political mischief in the nation was created by men who wore neckties.”—Jim Harrison
We need more stories about congressional cannibalism americanliterature.com/author/mark-...
Cannibalism In The Cars
Cannibalism In The Cars by Mark Twain
americanliterature.com
Sometimes even the president of the United States sometimes must have to stand naked
Every day on the way home from My office I pawn another Of my Spring clothes. Every day I come home from the river bank Drunk. Everywhere I go, I owe Money for wine. —Tu Fu (a snippet of "By the Winding River I")
Algorithms are the new carnival barkers touting a full commodification of art—books, film, tv, music. By design algorithms programatize mediocrity, banality, vacuity, genetically incapable of transcendence, revelation, silence. Prophets of poshlost. Overlords of unironic kitsch.
Hey @bobdylan I know you’re not Santa (tho you’ve donned his hat) but what I’d love for Xmas is a Dewayne Blackwell cover. Love your Basement and Outlaw takes of Mr. Blue. Ever considered doing “Friends in Low Places”? It makes me feel not so low. Blessings to you and yours.
another one of those days when Wigwam is my favorite Dylan tune
My son's school play. Macbeth. In the old opera house from 1902. Paint chipping off the walls. Velveteen drapes. Wooden theater seats, older than airplanes. Reminds me of something straight out of Northern Exposure.
Many of my favorite artists were tragically flawed. Just like my country, and the religion I was born into. Just like every honest person I’ve ever met. As flawed as the clothes I wear, the food I eat. As flawed as those who cast judgements outward, but never ever inward.
No matter how tepid, tame, or true a critique of the publishing industry might be, you can always anticipate a tsunami of superciliousness among the aftershocks.
AI is to human creativity as leaf blowers are to birdsong.
The real truth most folks can’t live with is the truth about themselves.
This whole and justifiable uproar over McCarthy, his work, his legacy, shines a harsh light on the truth of art and what distinguishes it from mere entertainment, namely that the darkness it probes is our darkness, our depravity, individual and collective.
Decades ago there was a trope in horrific sci-fi movies—Aliens hooking humans to machines to sap their vital life forces.
