October 2008
Chris Glomski is the author of Transparencies Lifted from Noon (MEB / Spuyten Duyvil, 2005) and two chapbooks, IL LA, from Noemi Press (2002) and Eidolon from Answer Tag Press (2008). He has published translations of Italian poets Francesco Giuntini, Maura del Serra, and Eugenio Montale. He lives in Chicago's East Ukranian Village.
Just the Thing
would be
a book
on which the rain
On the eve of the debate wherein McCain is reputedly going to try for character assassination on Obama. McCain's own radical connections should be mentioned.
Read on.
Hollenberg Kansas 1955
Interesting economic charts and info, here. Then vote. Courtesy of Academy Computer Services.
And chec out "African American Political Pundit" on Palin's Radical Connections here.
Artist Wesley Kimler, aka "The Shark," in conjunction with the other members of the Sharkpack, will begin presenting art exhibitions and events on a semi-regular basis within his vast studio space. Thus it is now officially designated THE SHARKPIT.The first event is an "apero and Vernissage" (to use European words), that is an opening and display of smaller works by the EuroShark Mark Staff Brandl on THURSDAY OCTOBER 16 from 7:30 pm on (see below or here), presented as an addendum to his Krannert Art Museum installation. A preview of Kimler's huge recent paintings will also be visible. In following months a complete exhibition of these works will occur. Stay tuned!
TEARS, IDLE TEARS, I KNOW NOT WHAT THEY MEAN,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a summering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!
["The Princess: A Medley: Tears, Idle Tears," by Alfred Lord Tennyson; for RM.]
