Only 17 Hours Left to Vote

Now's the hour! Vote on what comes after Post-Modernism, and if we're lucky, it will be ipodism.
Also, a note on that, I meant it to be more insidious than it sounds, so the acronym for ipod is:
"Intentional Promulgation Of the Demonic"

~Lord Bloch

Opening remarks: a credo, i'll claim it if you like it

Mark Helprin said that complex men exact their magnanimity by the simplest means. I only have simple means, and maybe they will grow into bug-luscious blossoms of enchanting magnanimity. Here is a wonderful poem by the great Christian poet Tyler Blanski:

Kiss a girl;

Spin the world;

Watch squirrels. 

Okay, this is only Now becoming Ridiculous

8:28pm
Irving, Texas
University of Dallas
Science Building
Computer Lab
Chris Wolfe's coveted computer against the back wall

My paper is going...well.
I have a header, a footer, and an iced mocha.
The best part about writing a paper in the UD computer lab is:

• You never get disturbed
• You are less likely to be distracted by Sercer's body
• The temperature is uncomfortable enough to keep you awake
• The Capbar is close by
• John Platts is usually close by as well
• I had spagetti tonight....
• Chicks dig it
• The clock is an hour slow

Procrastination

Does anyone know the etymology of procrastinate?
I'm attempting to write a paper on Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf.
This is procrastination.
___Sticks_________________________

One of My Favorites

since feeling is first

who pays any attention

to the syntax of things

will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool

while spring is in the world

my blood approves,

and kisses are a better fate

than wisdom

lady i swear by all flowers. don't cry

—the best gesture of my brain is less than

your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for eachother: then

laugh, leaning back in my arms

for life's not a paragraph

and death i think is no parenthesis

–E.E. Cummings

What ho!!

Born to flirt and write light verses,
He died bravely
Beneath the headman's axe.

--W.H. Auden

An Epic Update with political significance and much bearing on the souls of the inhabitants of "The Bar," formerly known as "The Irish Guys's"

Irving Texas -

Kind friends and companions,

The apartment formerly known as "The Irish Guys's," has been invaded. 1026, or "The Bar," is currently under attack from a malicious form of mold. Last night as I lay dreaming of pleasant days gone by, my mind been bent on dreaming of the perfect glass of single-malt scotch, I was awoken, most rudely, most injuriously, by a frothy frenetic coughing fit. It was at this time that I decided to get out of bed to escape the onslaught of this malicious and nefarious mold colony. Stumbling on melons as I passed, and ensnared in Sercer's clothing, I somnambled out into the ante-chamber. Much to my dismay, both the flannel and pink-flower couches were occupied by foreign peace-keepers (The Pig and Paul Gautie). I had few options left. No man could dare return to the mold colonies, nor does any man in his right mind take the The Pig's bed, for that would be certain doom. And so I, in a mostly comitose state, felt the urge to venture into the other half of "The Bar," into the omphalos, the belly of "The Bar" (formerly known as "The Irish Guys's") into the very bar of "The Bar!"
I stood in the midst of the underworld listening to history's voices calling to me from the bookshelves and from the bottles scattered about the bar-top. The window was open, and I felt the cold November morning air. It was the cold dreary November of my life. I grabbed the Native American pillow and a red plushy blanket from the ante-chamber, and roosted on the bar couch.
Strange vigil I kept that morning in the bar, as a heard outside the starting of cars, the bustle of the real world, where some people actually wake up that early to go to work. I then heard the alarm clock, that the pig had strategically placed next to his eardrum, going off for 3 hours.
Do I wake, or do I sleep?
Is it negative capability or positive incapacity?
Sercer is a trucker.
It's almost Thanks
Giving
Break.

~PB

Ode to a Nightingale

Ode To A Nightingale

~John Keats

1.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

2.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

3.

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

4.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

5.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

6.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain
To thy high requiem become a sod.

7.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

8.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toil me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: Do I wake or sleep?

Pedantocracy

"Pedantocracy: Government of pedants, rule by pedants. (Oxford English Dictionary)"