July 29th, 2011 / 4:38 pmMatthew Simmons
“When This Time Is the Time That Comes” by J.A. Tyler
Some fine writing by the one and only J.A. Tyler now lives on my little online book concern, Happy Cobra Books. You should go read it.
And then, listen to this song by the New Orleans doom/sludge metal band Thou. It’s—maybe—the only doom/sludge metal song you’ll hear today that opens with a blast beat.
Tags: doom metal, JA Tyler
I love Thou. And JA Tyler. Put them together and I really like that combination.
Might I suggest a Buffalo Trace (neat) and a Hop Czar Imperial IPA to go with the two as well?
I applaud that contribution. I might do this tonight, but I may replace the Hop Czar with a growler of Three Floyds Zombie Dust. Not the biggest fan of Hop Czar.
There needs to be more love poetry.
I feel like poets don’t write about sweet things anymore because thy’re worried about being too sentimental. Does anybody else feel that way? Or am I missing out on some tight love piety somewhere?
Also, Matthew reminded me that the first time I met JA was in nola. We met at the sex toy shop because it was the easiest place to give directions to. The clerk inside had long noble ears like the Buddha. JA told him a story about stopping a guy trying to rob his house with a purple, giant and sparkling dildo dong. My favorite part was when JA winked at him and said, “Then I looked him right in his wet eyes and said, ‘I used to fuck guys like you in prison.'” Just like in Roadhouse.
I like JA Tyler, because–whether a brothel or bar–he’d make an excellent cooler.
oh sweet, THOU on the giant!
Fair enough. I just want you to be happy.
We’ve been sleeping on Thou. Damn, Summit is a helluva record.
ugh, wasn’t there a discussion on titles like this recently? What does it even mean?
poets are writing about love, but they are writing it badly. they are whispering it simperingly and taking it seriously. they are not saying any new things about love but how it is a flower or a river or the sky or an alien. “my love for you is a/ great big green, slightly greenish,/ closer to yellow alien with many/ arms, so many arms/ some of them in inappropriate places,” the poems that exist about love say.
I wholeheartedly agree with you, but you’re wrong. Love is a flower. That’s the only way to say it.
Love is a flower and you can buy it at Target.
Walmart also sells love but it’s not as pretty.
On certain weekends, love is for sale tax-free.
Love is amazingly affordable and if it’s not working, you can call an 800 number. Someone in India will help you with your love.
oh, right. that was a typo. the poems that exist about love are how it is like flour.
love is a flour that is inedible to those intolerant to gluten
love is sifted and combined with other ingredients to make a cake or cookies
love is a dough that you wet your hands first so as not to get on your hands
I must agree.
Love is getting your fingers wet.
I agree. No matter how strong the book, its quality is diminished when the title reads, “I am a clever poet these are poems by a clever poet.” Just be clever. Then name the thing.
You made me happy by posting this.
alternative titles: Cupped Hands in a Cup, Kicking Your Neighbor in the Eyeballs, Love is a Flour-Coated Flower
what does what does it even mean even mean
OK, I am going to tell you all a True story, and then I am going to get off this damn internet and go have a nice stiff drink.
I once worked for an import/distribution company, in the office, doing customer service. We had a form called the “Where’s My Order?” form, that we would fill out and send through the appropriate channels when an account called and asked “Where’s My Order?” Well, sometimes (~often~) we would lose those “Where’s My Order?” forms. So I came up with the idea, which I mentioned at a typical irregularly scheduled office meeting, that we come up with a “Where’s My “Where’s My Order Form?” form.
(Oh, also, when I worked there, I “inherited” the desk – a Very Messy desk – of a previous employer who didn’t clean up/off/out her desk at all before she left. One day (some time later, actually) I found a book on this desk entitled “File Don’t Pile”. I showed it to a co-worker, we had a good laugh (she was familiar with my messy desk, with the whole office mess, actually). She said “Where did you find That? ” and I said (pah-dum) “In a pile.”)
Lose that final parenthesis.