reading around blogland today i find jennifer bartlett hating rude people who litter in public

[i hate that too; also i hate people who spit on sidewalks or the street, leave chewing gum for others to sit or step in, whistlers who can't carry a tune and individuals who address others as chief, as in how's it going there, chief]

from ross priddle's blog

i find this cool poem by jwcurry

and this page from lee thorn's zine fuck! with poems by jon cone and thorn

* * *

okay; is art sourced in pain and created in the abject.

for me the source might be despair, the subjects depressing but the actions of writing/reading is pleasure. not the idiotic follow-yr-bliss sort of thing. but deep, lasting pleasure. the kind derived in the full knowledge that all this, all this shit, is temporary. and once we are dead we can never know it again.

reading/writing are then - not to sound edenic at all - but perhaps those processes i [we] use to [re]create and always discover the thrill of living and death.