I Got Home Last Night

I got home late last night. I've been selling books Sunday nights for donks, y'all, bringing the people what they need. [What they needed last night: Your Time Has Come, Actual Air, and something by Mary Oliver. We've still got In the American Tree and Under Albany, people. People!]

I'm home; I'm reading the Ahts & Lezhure [NB: not them—that's how I talk] in the New York Times. A. O. Scott's got an essay on today's Hollywood entitled "Where Have All the Howlers Gone? Spectacularly Awful Movies Are Rare Today. That May Be Why Truly Great Ones Are, Too," which settles my mind thinking about … contemporary American poetry. The gist is a conservatism and practicality guiding an endless procession and production of the adequate. I hope all poets will conform to the highest technical standards, lest they be condemned as School of Quietudes. Or Post-Avants. Actually, I don't know what I'm talking about. You obey whichever standards you like. Were it stupendous, I'd say hereabouts it's stupendously hectic, these days. I mean to type. To think.

Gotta go shopping. Ho, ho.