WhimsyLand

There can be such a thing as too much poetry, and I try not to write it. — John Ashbery.  (thanks, to Jilly by way of Trish).

If you recognize yourself, relax, I'm not calling you a hoity toity fuckhole. No, no, no -- I'm discussing hoity toity fuckhole behaviors/attitudes I've encountered/observed among a number of folks. — Reb.  (Whew.  Good.  I was worried there for a moment).

Kansas Associate Professor of Spanish Jonathan Mayhew got a five-year contract extension Thursday that bumps up his annual compensation to more than $1.3 million — Señor Swing.

Friday seems very far away. Too far away. The expectation and anticipation are killing me. — CDY. (note the proper noun/verb agreement).

I am a poet, and I often blog about poetry, but I will goddam well blog about pop music, or movies, or crime fiction, or candy canes, or hanging out with my friends, or what my twelve favorite brands of shoe polish are, or revolting bear embryos, or what Mighty Morphing Power Ranger I would be if I were a Mighty Morphing Power Ranger. — Kasey.

We get around in cars so much they say we'll lose our baby toes.— LH or perhaps not, the jury is out.

Reading a journal I admire the past few days, agog at the abrupt and unmotivated emphasis from poem to poem on nothingness, emptiness, the null set, nihil, none, suicide, destruction, and dread. — Jordan.

I'm going to apply to Breadloaf this year. What the hell. I have to experience the madness of Breadloaf at least once. I got in two years ago as a waiter, but I had to decline because of my brother's sudden wedding. I should've gone to Breadloaf instead. My brother is now divorced. — Eduardo.

Celebrate the new year by getting yourself a copy of 2007s Pushcart Prize. I've always felt the poems are consistently better than the ones in that other anthology.— David H.

Years after the show is shut down, Keillor, Streep, and company meet in a diner to discuss a revival and tour of “A Prairie Home Companion.” Suddenly Lola breezes in, modeling a black cell phone and curve-hugging power suit softened by a touch of puffed sleeves, what clothing catalogs call the “Poet’s Blouse.” A new style oxymoron has emerged, one appropriate to a former suicide babe turned financial advisor. “Have you even heard of mutual funds?” — Ange.