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39 episodes with slushies
2 episodes with slushies
2 episodes with slushies
2 episodes with slushies
2 episodes with slushies
2 episodes with slushies
Like the movie of the same name, the poems we discuss here, Slushies, take on the cares of the world in an unrelenting torrent. In this episode, we discuss three poems by Harriet Levin which reference the Haitian writer and artist Frankétienne, Barcelona's as-yet unfinished Sagrada Familia cathedral, and the constellation of Orion, (for starters). We think about how poems featuring babies can avoid the sentimental (as we ultimately decide these do). We end considering the picture book chaos found in Maurice Sendak's Where the Wild Things Are as a counterpoint to real-world displacement. At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Jason Schneiderman, Samantha Neugebauer, Lisa Zerkle, Jodi Gahn, Lillie Volpe (sound engineer) With thanks to one of our sponsors, Wilbur Records, who kindly introduced us to the artist is A.M.Mills whose song “Spaghetti with Lorraine” opens our show. Harriet Levin is the author of three poetry books, The Christmas Show (Beacon Press, 1997), Girl in Cap and Gown (Mammoth Books, 2010), and My Oceanography (CavanKerry 2018). Her honors include the Alice Fay di Castagnola Award from the Poetry Society of America, The Barnard New Women Poets Prize, Nimrod's Pablo Neruda/Hardiman Award, The Ellen LaForge Memorial Poetry Prize, and a PEW Fellowship in the Arts discipline award. Her debut novel, How Fast Can you Run, a novel based on the life of Lost Boy of Sudan Michael Majok Kuch, was excerpted in The Kenyon Review and chosen as a 2017 Charter for Compassion Global Read. A 2022-23 Stein Family Foundation Fellow, she holds an MFA from the University of Iowa and teaches writing at Drexel University. Website: harrietlevinmillan.org
Slushies, we invoke the retelling of a ghostly experience shared by Kathy and Marion at the Hotel Figueroa in California earlier this year partway into this episode. Two poems by Jen Siraganian are at the heart of our discussion, and it's the first of these that puts ghosts into our heads. This poem also causes us to consider at some length the physical form chosen by or for a poem, and how this can utterly enhance the experience of the poem when it's just right. It's also an opportunity for Jason to raise the spectre of the virgule (or slash) once again, and we even pause briefly to recall when WYSIWYG was a useful acronym. We end the episode with an ekphrastic that prompts an on-the-spot tie breaker (thanks to our sound engineer Lillie for saving the day!). https://whitney.org/collection/works/2171 https://www.nga.gov/collection/highlights/gorky-the-artist-and-his-mother.html At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Marion Wrenn, Lisa Zerkle, Jason Schneiderman, Dagne Forrest, Jodi Gahn, Lillie Volpe (sound engineer) Jen Siraganian is an Armenian-American writer, educator, and former Poet Laureate of Los Gatos, California. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in AGNI, Barrow Street, Best New Poets, Cortland Review, Poetry Daily, Prairie Schooner, The Rumpus, Smartish Pace, and other journals. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and won the 2024 New Ohio Review Poetry Prize. A former managing director of Litquake: San Francisco's Literary Festival, she is a current Lucas Artist Fellow. jensiraganian.com Social media handles: Facebook @jen.siraganian, Instagram @jsiraganian, Bluesky @jsiraganian.bsky.social, Website
Food News Part 2 - Sonic Pizza Bites & SlushiesSee Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.
Chalee and Chelsea do a wrap up of what has been going on since the baby came. We review new chocolate treats, the Ninja Slushi machine, what's new in the Covid scandal, taking care of elderly parents and Morgan Wallen's new album??? We haven't seen each other for a while so we have to get to all of the gossip. Join us.
Slushies, this episode finds Kathy, Lisa and Jason gearing up for AWP, and it's the last one with Divina at the table (we'll miss her contributions!). Three poems by Luiza Flynn-Goodlet get close reading by the team. Lisa admits to feeling initially resistant to the Ars Poetica form with the first poem, but admits to being won over and others agree. Jason connects the meditation on death in this poem and its personification of death to Anthony Hecht's Flight Among the Tombs: Poems. The delightful ways in which the first and third poems are in conversation with each other rounds out a layered discussion. (Not to be missed – Jason attempting some Gen Z slang with his farewell!) At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Samantha Neugebauer, Lisa Zerkle, Jason Schneiderman, Divina Boko, Lillie Volpe (sound engineer) Luiza Flynn-Goodlett is the author of Mud in Our Mouths (forthcoming from Northwestern University Press) and Look Alive (winner of the 2019 Cowles Poetry Book Prize from Southeast Missouri State University Press), along with numerous chapbooks, most recently Familiar (Madhouse Press, 2024) and The Undead (winner of Sixth Finch Books' 2020 Chapbook Contest). Her poetry can be found in Fugue, Poetry Northwest, Third Coast, and elsewhere. She serves as a Poetry Editor for the Whiting Award–winning LGBTQIA2S+ literary journal and press Foglifter. Her critical work has appeared in Cleaver, Pleiades, The Adroit Journal, and other venues. Bluesky: luizagurley.bsky.social, Website
Story at-a-glance Glycerol, a common additive in sugar-free slushie drinks, can trigger severe medical symptoms in young children, including unconsciousness, seizures and dangerously low blood sugar A study across the U.K. and Ireland found that nearly all affected children became sick within an hour of consuming slushies, with no prior health issues or underlying medical conditions Symptoms mirrored rare metabolic disorders, confusing emergency responders and delaying proper treatment, despite the cause being an ingredient found in a popular children's beverage Glycerol exposure caused measurable metabolic disruption, including low blood sugar, acid buildup in the blood, low potassium and high triglyceride levels unrelated to fat intake Avoiding slush ice drinks completely eliminated the problem in nearly all of the children, making removal of this one product a powerful step for parents looking to protect their child's health
Special guest, MLBPA Agent, Phil Terrano visits as we discuss how the love of money is encroaching on the love of the game.Quick Look at MLB Rankings, Mets leading the pack with .700 Winning percentage. AL East – Orioles suffering challenges with young playersPhil Terrano joins the show live from a youth baseball fieldTravis Jankowski – had a lot of movement between teams since Spring TeamYour playing for the 29 other teamsPlayers jump from team to team – sometimes not by their choicePhil recounts Moneyball story about player changing teams during gamePutting your best foot forward at every level of the game from Rookie to MLBVery few players that come off the bench and are good every timeMany players come up and down across the league levelsNeed opportunity to shine with teams – Rule 5How do you identify talent. It does not come to you.The Youth level has become a businessLittle League & American Legion teams are being challenged with Travel BallRealize that a player may not make it to the majorsCommunity ball – many local fields are being rented by Travel BaseballYouth baseball revenue 50.62 Billion in 2024 will to 56 Billion in There is only 1 Derek JeterCost of youth baseball – a new popular bat may cost $500Enjoy the game as a kid – what happened to the fun in baseballYouth baseball – being loyal to your teammates, loyal to your coachesHopscotching from multiple travel teams impactMore changes as young girls and women coming into the gameHas the game really changed or have we changedNCAA impact on young baseball playersPhil's Dream Big ProjectVision for a community sports complexChallenges faced from those profiting off current youth baseball modelsOffering scholarships and free camps for underserved kidsPassion for the GamePhil's personal commitment as an agent and fatherBalancing business with genuine care and loyaltyTeaching kids the value of the game beyond wins and statsParenting in BaseballPhil's experience raising two baseball-loving sonsLessons in balancing ambition with fun and perspectiveEmphasis on education and a “Plan B” beyond baseball dreamsMental Toughness & AdversityDealing with negativity in the communityEncouraging kids to persevere and enjoy the game despite setbacksRespecting coaches, umpires, and the game itselfIndustry InsightsThe harsh realities of making it to the prosStories from Phil's career supporting players through transitions and releasesImportance of honesty in coaching and talent evaluationHow to Make Baseball More Enjoyable for KidsOne free sport for every child until age 12Funding for coaches to reduce financial burdensPromoting different playing styles instead of a “one-size-fits-all” moldRemembering baseball is still a game meant to be enjoyed A Real-Time Walk-Off Moment!Phil shares a spontaneous, live moment of his son's team winning a gameCelebration of pure joy and the innocence of youth baseballKids care more about fun than stats – Slushies
The Smart 7 is an award winning daily podcast that gives you everything you need to know in 7 minutes, at 7am, 7 days a week...With over 17 million downloads and consistently charting, including as No. 1 News Podcast on Spotify, we're a trusted source for people every day and the Sunday 7 won a Gold Award as “Best Conversation Starter” in the International Signal Podcast Awards If you're enjoying it, please follow, share, or even post a review, it all helps...Today's episode includes the following guests:Guests Florence Eshalomi - MP for Vauxhall and Camberwell Green Michael Rosen - Author and Poet Professor Mark Faghy - Long Covid Trial Lead at the University of Derby Becky Steed - Former Nottingham GP and Long Covid sufferer Will Guyatt - The Smart 7's Tech Guru Dr Paul Jansz - Cardiothoracic and transplant surgeon, Vincents Hospital, SydneyDr David Timms - Inventor of The Bi-VACOR artificial heart Rory Cellan-Jones - Author and Dog Owner Carol Erickson - Animal Advocate with the Pennsylvania SPCA Steve Reed - Environment Secretary Professor Ellen Crushell - Metabolic Paediatrician at Ireland's Temple Street Children's Hospital and Clinical Professor at UCD School of Medicine Alan Titchmarsh - The Nation's Favourite Gardener Dr Kate Mansfield - Associate Professor and Director of the Turtle Research Group at the UFC Biology DepartmentContact us over at X or visit www.thesmart7.comPresented by Jamie East, written by Liam Thompson and produced by Daft Doris. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.
Dr. Mitch Shulman can be heard every weekday morning at 7:50 on The Andrew Carter Morning Show.
Professor Ellen Crushell, Metabolic Paediatrician at Children's Health Ireland (CHI) Temple Street and Clinical Professor at UCD School of Medicine
Children under eight should steer clear of slushies containing glycerol due to the risk of sickness. That's according to a new study from the Archives of Disease in Childhood. For more on this we heard from Professor Ellen Crushell, Lead Author of the study and Metabolic Paediatrician at Children's Health Ireland and Clinical Professor at UCD School of Medicine.
Children under eight should steer clear of slushies containing glycerol due to the risk of sickness. That's according to a new study from the Archives of Disease in Childhood. For more on this we heard from Professor Ellen Crushell, Lead Author of the study and Metabolic Paediatrician at Children's Health Ireland and Clinical Professor at UCD School of Medicine.
In this episode, Andy and Patrick take a low-key approach to bourbon slushies.
Episode 134: Tidbits & Trolls Join us for a conversation about new poems by Kelly Egan and a discussion about line breaks, image systems, and the surprise turns poems make. Keep your eyes and ears open, Slushies, the landscape is full of lore. Egan has us pondering possibilities. Once upon a time folks believed in Selkies, shapeshifting seals who make folks fall in love with them in their human form. Who knew it's bad luck to open the door on Christmas Eve for fear trolls will maraud your house? You've been warned. Check out Danish artist Thomas Dambo's mammoth sculpted trolls hidden in plain sight. And if you want to deep dive into another legendary landscape – aka a brick-and-mortar bookstore – be sure to check out Parker Posey's documentary The Booksellers. At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Marion Wrenn, Samantha Neugebauer, Dagne Forrest, Lisa Zerkle, Divina Boko, Jess Fielo (sound engineer) Kelly Egan writes from dream, reverie, and long drives. She is the author of two chapbooks—Millennial, from White Stag, and A Series of Septembers, from Dancing Girl Press. Her poems can also be found in Maiden Magazine, Interim, Colorado Review, Laurel Review, RHINO, Denver Quarterly, and elsewhere. Kelly has an MFA from Saint Mary's College of CA and has participated in writing residencies in Iceland and the Peruvian Amazon. She lives in California's Bay Area. Find her at kellyjeanegan.com.
Episode 83: Goodnight, Mary Magdalene first aired in June 2020 and features three poems by Vasiliki Katsarou, a poet and publisher. This time last year, Vasiliki published a new short collection of poetry Three Sea Stones with Solitude Hill Press. It's a great time to revisit Vasiliki's work. Dear Slushies, join the PBQ crew (which includes a freshly-tenured Jason Schneiderman) for a pre-pandemic recording of our discussion of 3 poems by the wonderful Vasiliki Katsarou's work. Be sure to read the poems on the page below as you listen. They'll require your eyes and ears– and “a decoder ring.” The team has a grand old time explicating these artful poems. The muses are sprung and singing in us as we read and decide on this submission. Katsarou's poems teach us to read them without projecting too much of ourselves and our current preoccupations onto them. We're reminded to pay attention to what's happening on the page. But synchronicities abound! Before we know it we're ricocheting off of the poems' images and noting the wonderful convergences the poems trigger – we hear traces of Wallace Stevens “Idea of Order of Key West” or Auden's Musee de Beaux Arts. (But first we check in with each other, cracking each other up in a pre-pandemic moment of serious lightness. We're heard that “Science” shows Arts & Humanities majors make major money in the long run. Kathy reports that “the data on success” shows that participation in Nativity Plays is a marker for career success. Samantha confesses she played Mary Magdalene in a Nativity Play. Marion might have been a Magi. And many of us were reindeer.. Also, Donkeys do better than sheep over time (which may or may not have been claimed on “Wait, wait… don't tell me!”). Editing a Lit Mag shouldn't be this much fun, Slushies. Listen through to the discussion of the 3rd poem's deep magic and craft. And listen to our editors' cats chime in). Addison Davis, Jason Schneiderman, Samantha Neugebauer, Kathleen Volk Miller, Marion Wrenn, and Joe Zang Vasiliki Katsarou grew up Greek American in Jack Kerouac's hometown of Lowell, Massachusetts. She has also lived in Paris, France, and Harvard, Mass. She is the author of a full-length poetry collection, Memento Tsunami, and co-editor of two contemporary poetry anthologies: Eating Her Wedding Dress: A Collection of Clothing Poems and Dark as a Hazel Eye: Coffee & Chocolate Poems. She holds an MFA from Boston University and an AB in comparative literature from Harvard University. She read her poetry at the 2014 Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival, and is a Teaching Artist at Hunterdon Art Museum in Clinton, New Jersey. Her poems have been published widely and internationally, including in NOON: Journal of the Short Poem (Japan), Corbel Stone Press' Contemporary Poetry Series (U.K.), Regime Journal (Australia), as well as in Poetry Daily, Tiferet: A Journal of Spiritual Literature, Wild River Review, wicked alice, Literary Mama, La Vague Journal, Otoliths, and Contemporary American Voices. She wrote and directed an award-winning 35mm short film, Fruitlands 1843, about a Transcendentalist utopian community in Massachusetts. Vasiliki's website: https://onegoldbead.com/, Twitter: https://twitter.com/cineutopia , Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/vasiliki.katsarou, and Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/cineutopia/ The Future Arrives as a Redhead They talk of mothers in law but not of outlaw daughters her sun and her moon is our son her cool paleness, reflected in an eye that looks like mine, follows her curves along the shoreline her hair like copper coils from beneath a straw hat a Maisie or Daisy, a woman of Stem for whom we stem talk of servers, thumbprint keys, on an ancient island now we are all code-changers the future arrives as a redhead green, green love lays a glove on us, we no longer count in threes, a quaver sounds, and the future all sharps and flats * Wedding, Key West A stitch in throat saves time Infernal cough speaks through me @ the bride and groom On sand they stand to create a sand souvenir from this empty glass vessel Sunset drips from the lips of the bride As the prey is plucked from the air between her palms In the gulf beyond the photographer's camera, a capsized sailboat, but no one's looking– The Key light bedazzles and defeats us all Mouth tightly shut clench in the solar plexus * Waited you waited with me as the house next door emptied of its guests, then its owners, fairy tale turned animal farm minted with ash and wishes you were my kitchen elf my second thought my echo's echo cocked ear, cracked oasis your absorbent embered orbs that morning of the supermoon setting behind the barn you were quiet, then quieter still white fog settling into the hollows and a thin coat of frost everywhere and this, the simplest death you trained me well, M. I listen for your listening
Labrador Morning from CBC Radio Nfld. and Labrador (Highlights)
His slushies are the talk of the town in Makkovik. We take you to Tommy Winters' house, where he sells slushies year round—and we meet two young customers raving about those slushies.
Episode Description: Making Money, Hopes, Dreams & More! In today's episode, we're diving into a fun and insightful discussion on making money, chasing dreams, and navigating the world of reselling and investing. Whether you're looking to boost your income or gain valuable insights, this episode has something for everyone! Check out my new website: https://FlipFlip.com Join the FlipFlip Discord community: discord.gg/FlipFlip Watch more on my YouTube channel: https://www.youtube.com/FlipFlipVLOGs --- About FlipFlip: FlipFlip, also known as Dylan, is a serial entrepreneur and a thought leader in the business world. As the Chairman and CEO of FlipFlip, he is recognized for his forward-thinking approach and ability to spot trends early. With a deep understanding of how consumer behavior shifts impact business, Dylan blends business acumen with pop culture to bring brand relevance to the forefront. He's also a prolific angel investor with a track record of early investments that have paid off big. Tune in to gain valuable insights that can help you on your journey to success! --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/reseller/support
Slushies, waves abound in this lively discussion of a poem by Martha Silano and two more by Jane Hilberry. The way stream of consciousness can crest and fall, sound waves, the missed and caught waves in real life (including runs of luck or the lack of it), not to mention the different ways in which we experience poetry– the gang rides wave after wave. We regularly find that our process of reading poetry aloud causes one or more of us to experience a poem anew. Sometimes it provides clarity that wasn't there when it was confined to the silence of the page. Sometimes it brings up questions. As always, we were grateful to have the trust of two amazing poets willing to share our discussion of their work. (We were going to call this episode “In Bed with Marion & Kathy” and we'll let you find out why by having a listen!) At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Marion Wrenn, Jason Schneiderman, Angelique Massey, Lisa Zerkle, Dagne Forrest, Vivian Liu (sound engineer) Martha Silano's six books include This One We Call Ours, winner of the 2023 Blue Lynx Poetry Prize, and available from Lynx House Press. She is also the author of Gravity Assist, Reckless Lovely, and The Little Office of the Immaculate Conception, all from Saturnalia Books. Martha's poems have appeared in Poetry, The Paris Review, American Poetry Review, The Missouri Review, and elsewhere. She enjoys birdwatching, botanizing, and hanging out with her kids and cats. Learn more about her work at marthasilano.net. The Luck of It What counts is that my car, when it gets broken into, what's gone is replaceable, like that leather jacket my friend Alison threw at me when she left for California. Please take it! (I got a new one for Christmas). Once, when I left it unlocked, someone spent the night in my Hyundai. All in all, I was happy to offer a place of refuge, especially on account of nothing stolen, not the extra pair of socks, not my maroon hat or hand sani, the only tip off being the empty bottle of Sprite. Sprite! I mean, you're kidding me. My husband jokes how I get so excited about the crumb that drops on my plate from that giant chocolate croissant in the sky, tells me I'm like a housefly with a tiny chunk of pizza it can't believe it's had the good fortune to land on. And look! It's even got a little dab of pepperoni juice! It seems I set the bar low, and maybe he's right, though when I ran track, the field part kind of scared me. In tenth grade, when Suzanne Glester broke the state record in the high jump, I could barely keep myself from looking away as her contorted body landed in a heap on a thick mat that never seemed thick enough. Honestly, I'm just glad I'm not the guy on Next Door who posted about the lonely chicken: I see her wandering around. Seems like she need another little hen. Do any of you have one you'd like to re-home? Or the woman who shared someone's been racing their car up Juneau. making a hair pin turn onto Seward Park Avenue. It literally rattles our windows. I'm tempted to respond I feel your pain, but having rattling windows means you live in a home? I guess what I'm trying to say is that when two guys were about to kick in our basement window, I happened to stroll by with a bag of dirty Huggies for the bin. Yep, a load of dirty diapers saved us. Jane Hilberry is just weeks into retirement after a happy 35-year teaching career at Colorado College that began with Medieval and Renaissance literature and ended up in Creativity & Innovation. So far retirement involves mostly sleeping and swimming, but she aspires to write poems, paint, and make small objects for sheer delight. Her books of poems include Still the Animals Enter and Body Painting (Red Hen Press) and a chapbook co-authored with her father, Conrad Hilberry, titled This Awkward Art: Poems by a Father and Daughter (Mayapple Press). Paintings and small objects can be found on Instagram @jhilberry. I might have planned badly My friends are ga-ga over their grandkids, over the moon! Pictures on their phones of the toddler pushing the vacuum, the dog sleeping wrapped around the child. My god, I was driven. I translated every word of Beowulf, working out each noun's case ending, nominative, accusative, genitive, dative, or a vestigial instrumental. I spent my twenties in a library carrel until 2 a.m. closing. I could regret it now, but there was no stopping that one, whoever she was. Baby, I'm going to be seventy soon, and eighty. Coastal Cali At the intersection, a stream of newly washed Benzes and Bentleys. A man in a camel coat surveys a café patio: "I'm dressed inappropriately,” he says. He's crew for Hollywood Medium. Against the roar of leaf blowers, Que tiempo hace hoy plays on someone's radio. It's breezy, seventy-five. Meanwhile, at the water, surfers lift and fall, surge and sink. The dark triangles of their heads and shoulders move like fins in undulating circles, till one rises, twists and vees, rides the wave into a bloom of foam. What is this world? wrote Chaucer, What asketh man to have? Xanax for the rough days. I can't identify the flora— Yarrow? Ice plant? —or remember the gods of the sea. Zephyr? Poseidon? No one here calls it the sea.
What's your love language, Slushies? Is it touch, or talk? Recipes or arithmetic? Join us for this episode devoted to poems by Jin Cordaro, whose work strikes an incantatory tone, draws us in, and gets us chewing on the riddles of the human predicament. How do our bodies know things before our minds do? How do other people's shopping lists make us ache for connection? We focus on the art of lists, the arc of poems, and the power of a poet's voice to invite and hold the reader's attention. A link we think you might like: Please Touch Museum, Philadelphia At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Marion Wrenn, Lisa Zerkle, Samantha Neugebauer, and Holly Messitt, as well as our briefly larger than normal tech team Heath Bailey, Jess Fielo, and Vivian Liu (without whom we'd be lost!) At four feet seven inches, Jin Cordaro believes she holds the record for most petite living poet. Having had twins, she also believes she holds the record for most times people have asked, “They came from you?” Her work has appeared in The Sun, Faultline, Smartish Pace, and Bacopa Literary Review, and has been featured on the podcast The Slowdown. She and her family live in central New Jersey. That Time You Stole Someone's Shopping Cart With their shopping list in the seat, and a flower doodled in the corner – a sign not a curse or a prayer, a devotion, a singular language to nourish and be nourished. Familiar words, combined in a cipher, you can only translate every third word – paprika followed by shallots means to put effort or caring. Cranberries combined with pecans and butternut squash means to sustain, keep well. What would this taste like? This list a thin opaque crepe filled with the soft, oozing breadth of someone's attention and time. You slip it into your jacket keep your hand on your pocket as you walk the store. Rush home to unfold it, imagine it still warm, slightly browned on a skillet, sweet and bready with love. You chew it slowly – the only piece of food to be found. The Sum of One 1/3 parent + 1/3 employee + 1/3 spouse does not equal 1 whole you but permutations of you. Only one can execute its function at any given time. Requirements call for 1 ½ parent you + 1 ½ work you + 1 ½ spouse you = invalid calculation. Insufficient source. Multiply by a factor of school concert x illness x hosting holiday = exponentially negative integer you. Divide this number by the number of your children, given age as a factor of x. Write a proof that demonstrates 1 you – job + bills = increase in sanity? Or 1/3 parent you – cleaning toilets – cooking = increase in you? You are the product of division. You ÷ x = disappearing you reduced to null an imaginary unit when all you want is to be prime divisible by only 1 and yourself. But 0 too can be divided by any number and still remain the same
In this episode, we visit Rowley's Red Barn to enjoy their delicious local apple cider slushies. We also recount a recent off-roading trip, listen to Laura's humorous complaints about fast food, and chat about some exciting upcoming adventures. This episode is made possible by The Pearl On Main. https://thepearlonmain.com/ Contact: Voicemail/Text: 385-988-0042 Website: http://www.theweeklyinsalt.com Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/the_weekly_insalt TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@theweeklyinsalt
Simon is the former leader of the National party, and the first ever Māori to lead a major party in New Zealand. We cover a lot of ground here- the good, the bad and the ugly. And there is plenty of each!We chat about his very recent serious fall off a Lime scooter, his early acting role on Hercules, his law career including his time as a crown prosecutor and the toll that takes on a person's mental health. Then we get into politics- including his regular TV appearances with Jacinda Arden and the on-screen chemistry they had. Getting told off by then PM John Key, receiving death threats, being publicly mocked for how he speaks, his reflections on voting against hay marriage. Life after politics and much much more.Thanks to my friends at Radix and Generate for sponsoring this episode.Radix is a Waikato based nutrition company who are going mainstream in a BIG WAY. Their protein powders are world class- I start every day with a shake made with their protein powder. There is a reason these guys have a 4.9 rating from 1600 reviews. They are that hard to fault:https://radixnutrition.co.nz/Generate have a team of KiwiSaver advisers across the country available to meet with you, chat through your options, and help you make sure your KiwiSaver investment is working for you. If you've never got KiwiSaver advice before, head to:https://www.generatewealth.co.nz/dom(A copy of their product disclosure statement is available on their website. The issuer of the scheme is Generate Investment Management Limited and of course past performance does not guarantee future returns). Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.
Episode 123: The Catholic Episode Dear Slushies, we have a confession. We love being close readers as much as we love being close listeners. And if you are a fan of this podcast, we know the same is true for you. We're delighted to consider Charlie Peck's poems “Cowboy Dreams” and “Bully in the Trees” in this episode. We're talking about unreliable narrators, homeric epithets, dramatic enjambments, and the difference between small “c” catholicism and capital “C” Catholicism. Confession and exultation, Slushies! Floating signifiers and The Sopranos. It's a doozy! We hope you love listening in as much as we loved considering Charlie Peck's poems for PBQ. (Oh, and we excitedly celebrate Jason's fifth collection launching in April, Portrait of Icarus as a Country on Fire!) At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Marion Wrenn, Jason Schneiderman, Samanatha Neugebauer Charlie Peck is from Omaha, Nebraska and received his MFA from Purdue University. His poetry has appeared previously in Cincinnati Review, Ninth Letter, Massachusetts Review, and Best New Poets 2019, among others. His first collection, World's Largest Ball of Paint, is the winner of the 2022 St. Lawrence Book Award from Black Lawrence Press and is forthcoming April 2024. Twitter: @chip_nutter Cowboy Dreams Winedrunk along the river on a Tuesday, boy howdy, my life. I ignore another call from my mother because today is about the matted grass and the skipping trout. When my brother jumps companies after the Christmas bonus, it's Ruthless. When I pillage the family silver to slick forty bucks at a pawn shop, It's time you start thinking about recovery. Instinct makes me wreck anyone who comes too close. You ever snapped a dog's stick just to watch his ears drop? I'm Catholic with how quick I loose my tongue to confess, my guilt just a frequency my ears quit hearing. One snowy May in the Colorado mountains, I stripped to my underwear and raised my pack to wade the glacial river. Dried by a fire with a pot of beans. All night I dreamt of my lasso and revolver, riding the hot-blooded horse alone across the plains, no one in sight to hurt. Bully in the Trees Indiana cornfields leave so much to be desired, and lately I've desired nothing but clean sheets and pretzel bread. For a decade I was ruthless, took whatever I wanted: last donut in the office breakroom, merged lanes out of turn. I stole my roommate's change jar, sat on the floor of a Wells Fargo rolling quarters to buy an eighth. In this new year, I promise I'll stop being the loudest in the room like a bear ravaging a campsite just to be the bully in the trees. For so long I thought my cruelty was the world's fault, my stubbed toe blamed on the coffee table's leg, not my stumbling in the dark. Throwing every fish back to the river doesn't forgive the hooked hole I caused. Once, I undressed a woman in the giraffe enclosure, but maybe that was a Soprano's episode. Once, my life was so ordinary I replaced it with the things I saw on television. I ate fifty hard-boiled eggs. I robbed the bank and screamed Attica! I stood in the trees cuffing the Nebraska suburb and watched my mother set the table through the window. A porcelain plate at each chair. My ordinary life stranged by the window frame. If I fall asleep before the credits, let me dream the rest. My pockets are empty, but the metal detector still shrieks.
“Well, no one's ever called this town ‘subtle.'”CAST:Rhys Tirado - VincentChris Q - WynnSerina Johnston - ElektraWRITING STAFF: Rhys TiradoEDITOR: Rhys TiradoMUSIC: Dana CreasmanSound effects via Epidemic Sound.TRANSCRIPTFollow Overbrook on Twitter: @OverbrookPodSocial media, Patreon, and Fundrazr: https://linktr.ee/brainrotpresents Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.
Midtown Spirits is the first distillery within Sacramento's city limits since Prohibition, and owner Jason Poole is on this week's episode to share the spirits crafted in the stills, the food avaialble and why Sacramento is both a great place to visit and enjoy a cocktail or pick up a few bottles of your favorite spirits.
Back at our Home Away from Home. Jack has a medical emergency! Michael has a theory about the sensory deprived. Judd expresses his love for a frozen sweet treat. SPONSORED BY: @DrinkWisconsinbly **Stop by the corner bar of the Deer District for not only the fastest, but the best Old Fashioned in Milwaukee!** PATREON!!!! patreon.com/fatchancestudios CHECK OUT THE NEW FAT CHANCE SHORTS CHANNEL!!! @FatChanceShorts https://youtube.com/@FatChanceShorts?si=wCjiBc0ddHEYk_bs Get your Chewzie TODAY! @TheChewzie https://www.thechewzie.com Check Out The Crew: Michael Cuske - @michaelcuske on everything Judd Reminger - @juddremingerscomedy7298 @juddreminger on all other socials Jack Cerasoli - @jackthedragon1 or @jack_c_comedy
What began as a quick Practice Perspective about the perils of having an attorney as a legal client evolved into a thoughtful reflection on this lawyer's childhood trauma and resolution.Read the full article.
The I Am Pitts Podcast is back after a much needed and extended break and there is a lot to catch up on. After taking some some time off and reconnecting with reality, I have come to realize how much I really despise social media. LMPD releases the video of officers throwing slushes on random people and the LMPD Chief is grilled on the stand about lying and an incident from her past comes to light. Nikki Haley has brown skin? That's news to me! Lastly, things in the Middle East are heating up as three U.S. troops are killed by a drone attack. Where does America go from here?
STOP BEATING YOURSELF UP!!! FORGIVE AND BE FORGIVEN!!! KEEP YOUR EYES FORWARD!!! TIME STAMPS 0:00 - Show Intro 1:10 - Episode Intro 5:57 - Regret 11:20 - Move On 14:45 - Forgive For Real 17:14 - Redemption 21:01 - Slushies & Mambas 26:46 - Close Jayson Waller is a seasoned international motivational speaker, a battle-tested serial entrepreneur, an Apple Top 5 Podcast host - The BAM Podcast & True Underdog, and a USA Today, WSJ & Amazon bestselling author - Own Your Power. He and his family are also starring in an Amazon Prime reality series - THE BAM FAM - airing January 2024. Join him and his world-class guests on a motivational, mind-expanding journey. Learn how to integrate Ai into your everyday workflow. Understand digital marketing at an elite level. Avoid the hard-learned pitfalls, celebrate the sweet victories, AND LAUGH YOUR ASS OFF ALONG THE WAY! jaysonwaller.com Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
Slushies, in this episode we consider two poems by C. Fausto Cabrera, both of which speak, in very different ways, to the imagination in building our sense of self. The notion of being seen, a topic of universal relevance to any writer or artist, is explored in the first poem, which ends with the line “stuck in between the covers wondering when you'll be back”, simultaneously exploring themes of incarceration or imprisonment. This discussion leads us to consider the many layers of being seen and Jason takes a moment to appreciate the “sexy time” of having a book tucked in your pocket. The second poem takes us on a related yet palpably different journey and reveals one of the paths our editorial discussions can take us to. Take a listen, you won't be disappointed! This episode is brought to you by our sponsor Wilbur Records, who kindly introduced us to the artist is A.M.Mills whose song “Spaghetti with Loretta” now opens our show. At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Jason Schneiderman, Samantha Neugebauer, and Dagne Forrest. C. Fausto Cabrera is a multi-genre artist and writer currently incarcerated since 2003. His work has appeared in: The Colorado Review, The Antioch Review, Puerto del Sol, The American Literary Review, The Water~Stone Review, The Woodward Review, among others. "The Parameters of Our Cage" is his prose collaboration with photographer Alec Soth. To Be Seen at All , "What makes us so deserving of space in other people' s minds?" -Daniel Ruiz My boss in the kitchen asks me how it felt to be famous after looking up my Washington Post Magazine essay & cover art online. The question left me stuck I didn't feel famous. I hadn't received much mail in years. What does celebrity mean separate from saturation, fame to the incarcerated— but infamy? I question the value of telling people about accomplishments, about publishing at all— in a place where your spades game gets more respect, & swagger's stuck in the last time you punched a muthafucker in the face, what' s the point? I just felt petty for wanting to be seen at all. Guards are more concerned with how many towels I have than who I become. I'm being heard— & that should be the focus, right? Is the nobility of a thing in or on purpose? Or the other way around? Cause who ever does anything for nobility— I'm starving to be objectified: stripped down by the new young blond guard like a Skinamax late nite B-movie, why else do hundreds of burpees if not to play into the bad boy fantasies of anyone watching? I went away before social media, but had my Lil' cousin Artesia build me a platform to stand upon, thinkin' it'd present me somehow, someway, maybe keep me present— be on someone's mind or wall, admired even for a moment. The Past says they miss me, but since they never reach past the screen it's not the real me, only their memory. It's not about me at all—and neither should the work be. There is a point to this poem, in its lack of trust. & none of it is an answer. How can I count on anything through a 2-way mirror? I am just a writer, the world through my eyes glows different due to the depths of my damage. When you close this book & move on I'll still be stuck in-between the covers, wondering when you'll be back. In the Sun that Seeps from the Dungeons/ Window/ Everything is Bright Because God is in an algorithm I hear through the toggle of my shuffle button/ from a playlist I composed/ I tell myself/ that if I listen, while the TV projects a pretty face to see when I look up from what I'm reading of poetry, mechanical pencil, click, click, underlining & taking notes in the margins— sipping a mug of French vanilla creamer laden coffee w/thoughts swirling in my cinnamon head/ the sheer alchemy of it all should/ naturally combust! What butterfly wings must taste like/embers floating/escape the chaos, wondering west to set fires/troublesome/I want blood in the cut, I want noise/they made me something vicious. Will I burn out or fade away? The man in black speaks for me & reminds me I'm not alone. A rainbow in the dark, I'll take death before dishonor, bet I bomb on them first/ it's just the life of an outlaw. I am an amalgamation of influences, intricate in their darkness, complex in their origins, some speak integrable nostalgic, others spark dumb & rash/& I gave away my youth to sit & listen to all at once/hopeful/ saying something of a future I' II forget/ I longed for/ once /it arrives. I read my poetry book, circle a word or phrase to slow down, hoping to see something I can lift/ above a drawn line or jot in the margins that can change the way I see or say. Words & wonder/ pour into my ears, my eyes catch/ images I pull into my heart while I swallow the sweetness of an appreciation. In these moments I am alive. Then God says, through The City of Prague' s Philharmonic Orchestra that the path isn't interchangeable. There's no other person I'd rather be.
When to break a line, Slushies. And why? What's the shape your poem takes, and how does the poem's form serve its complexities, subtleties, and heart? Three poems by Karl Meade are up for consideration in this episode of The Slush Pile, and they call the editors into conversation about trauma in literature, narrative (in)coherence as craft, and the pleasurable risks of stair-stepped stanzas. Poet L.J. Sysko joins the conversation on this episode of The Slush Pile as we discuss “Beach Fall,” “Christmas Break,” and “Doom Eager.” (If a tree falls in the woods, Slushies. Ammiright?) At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Marion Wrenn, L. J. Sysko, Jason Schneiderman, Samantha Neugebauer, Alex J. Tunney Karl Meade's work been published in many literary magazines, a few of which he didn't even donate heavily to, or previously serve as editor—including Literary Review of Canada, Tusculum Review, Arc Poetry Magazine, Grain Magazine, Chronogram, Umbrella Factory Magazine, Contemporary Verse 2, Event Magazine, The Fiddlehead, Open Letter, Under the Sun, and Dandelion. His work has also been mistakenly longlisted for four CBC Literary Prizes, shortlisted for The Malahat Review's Open Season Creative Nonfiction Award, and Arc Poetry Magazine's Poem of the Year. His novel, Odd Jobs, written as a solemn literary manifesto, was a finalist for the Foreword Reviews Book of the Year for Humor, and an iTunes Top 20 Arts and Literature podcast—“Laugh Out Loud,” one listener said of this grave work. Karl's chapbook “Doom Eager” has just been released in September 2023 by Raven Chapbooks, just in time for us to publish this podcast, which has waited longer than it should for release! Author website: www.karlmeade.com Guest Editor: L.J. Sysko L.J. Sysko's work has been published in Voicemail Poems, The Pinch, Ploughshares, Rattle, Best New Poets, and elsewhere. She is the author of a poetry chapbook, BATTLEDORE (Finishing Line Press, New Women's Voices series). Poetry honors include several Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg awards, two fellowships from Delaware's Division of the Arts, and poetry finalist recognition from The Fourth River, The Pinch, and Soundings East. Sysko holds an MFA in poetry from New England College. X: @lj_sysko Instagram: @lesliesysko Facebook: @lesliesysko Author website: http://www.ljsysko.com beach fall for Holli and Terry Mountain to stone, prairie to sand, redwood to ash, from here I can see the heart of the sea, but not the beach he fell on. I can see the picture window you sit in—waiting, watching the shore, iPad in lap, short-haired Flossy at your side, the one who dug your dad's water bottle from under him. I don't know why you brought his suitcase to his wake empty—what it was between you. Only he knew the words you could not say. The doctors' words for you—non-verbal, spectral—sent him back to rage. He said they weren't worth the hair on a dead chicken, that aut-ism was just too much self for them to take from you. He knew what his raging love could do: four hours a night on the couch, talking through your iPad. He called himself Manitoban, the prairie farm-boy who watched his dog run away for three days, the rain-man to lead you out, teach you how to mouth the O, the awe in Holli. Yes, from here I can see the redwoods fall, the mountains decay, his sea-bed— they say all the big hearts of the earth love where they fall, that his heart stopped before he hit the beach. But we both know why his mouth was full of sand. Christmas break for Doug and Arlene The earth heaves, the ice cleaves. Erosion cuts the heart from every stone, while every night I watch you drive your family past a starving glacier, turn from a truck laden with salt. You head off the head on, take the bumper to the heart, leave your family straining your lungs' last words from the floor of the minivan. I'm on the floor beneath my desk, straining to plug in the phone that I will blame for years: why did I plug it in? Every night I watch the driver's stoned eyes, petrified as your broken daughters in the back. Every night I piece you all back together: brake, I say, turn over and over while the glacier leaves its terminal moraine. I gather the stones, offer them to the moon, last witness to your last turn. I turn to your wife, try to face her head on with what the earth knows: core to crust, mouth to lung the rupture comes, the rupture stays. Every Christmas she wakes to the words brake, turn. doom eager* because one of us took a spike to the lung a minivan to the chest hit the beach with his heart to say nothing of the one whose only breath was broken water because I believe the hand, the wound, the moon is how I show you where I fell through the hole I thought I was diving for pearls through the green fuse of ice in my dream of you because I run naked through the forest on a moonless night with a penlight in the hand that broke my mother's heart waning at the seed of light the moon won't show me because its dark side calls all of us because I believe I'll find your heart in the east your marrow in the moon fever just before the sun rises I'll swim for it all day forgetting how the earth turns east south west circling all night forgetting there is no moon in the new moon because the only way out is my hand on your chest I walk the shore all night dream back the back of the moon because the only cure for the wound is the wound *after Ibsen, Graham, Moore: an Icelandic term for the isolation, restlessness, caughtness an artist experiences when sick with an idea
Still hanging with our buds Alex and Colin from the "Fun Sons in the Slam Dungeon" Podcast! We talk about when we all got a gaming collection at some point in time...that sentence is weird. But I think it got the point across lol. #level7games #videogames #colorado #denver #comedy #metal #funsonsintheslamdungeon #guest #sega #nintendo #collections #slushie Check ou the FSITSD here: Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/FSITSDPODCAST Tiktok: https://www.tiktok.com/@fun.sons.in.t... X: https://twitter.com/funsonspodcast Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/5YBuPhv... Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/funsonsinth... Check out our website at: https://www.level7games.com/
Jeff 'Chalkx' Fox & Daniel 'Gumby' Vreeland are back in your earholes with their UFC 291 main card betting guide! There may not be a 'real' title on the line Saturday, but UFC 291's main card is still a very solid five-fight lineup. And the boys like three dogs out of the five fights! Plus, a two-fight parlay that pays out +1787! Let's go! Listen in! Apple Spotify Join the SGPN community #DegensOnly Exclusive Merch, Contests and Bonus Episodes ONLY on Patreon - https://sg.pn/patreon Discuss with fellow degens on Discord - https://sg.pn/discord SGPN Merch Store - https://sg.pn/store Download The Free SGPN App - https://sgpn.app Check out the Sports Gambling Podcast on YouTube - https://sg.pn/YouTube Check out our website - http://sportsgamblingpodcast.com Support us by supporting our partners Circa Sports - Enter their contests for a chance to win your share of $14 Million - https://www.circasports.com/ Underdog Fantasy code SGPN - 100% Deposit Match up to $100 - https://sg.pn/underdog Watch the Sports Gambling Podcast YouTube - https://sg.pn/YouTube Twitch - https://sg.pn/Twitch Follow The Sports Gambling Podcast On Social Media Twitter - http://www.twitter.com/gamblingpodcast Instagram - http://www.instagram.com/sportsgamblingpodcast TikTok - https://www.tiktok.com/@gamblingpodcast Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/sportsgamblingpodcast Follow The Hosts On Social Media Jeff Fox - http://www.twitter.com/jefffoxwriter Daniel Vreeland - http://www.twitter.com/gumbyvreeland Show - http://www.twitter.com/sgpnmma Gambling problem? Call 1-800-GAMBLER CO, DC, IL, IN, LA, MD, MS, NJ, OH, PA, TN, VA, WV, WY Call 877-8-HOPENY or text HOPENY (467369) (NY) Call 1-800-327-5050 (MA) 21+ to wager. Please Gamble Responsibly. Call 1-800-NEXT-STEP (AZ), 1-800-522-4700 (KS, NV), 1-800 BETS-OFF (IA), 1-800-270-7117 for confidential help (MI) Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices
Jeff 'Chalkx' Fox & Daniel 'Gumby' Vreeland are back in your earholes with their UFC 291 main card betting guide! There may not be a 'real' title on the line Saturday, but UFC 291's main card is still a very solid five-fight lineup. And the boys like three dogs out of the five fights! Plus, a two-fight parlay that pays out +1787! Let's go! Listen in!AppleSpotify Join the SGPN community #DegensOnlyExclusive Merch, Contests and Bonus Episodes ONLY on Patreon - https://sg.pn/patreonDiscuss with fellow degens on Discord - https://sg.pn/discordSGPN Merch Store - https://sg.pn/storeDownload The Free SGPN App - https://sgpn.appCheck out the Sports Gambling Podcast on YouTube - https://sg.pn/YouTubeCheck out our website - http://sportsgamblingpodcast.comSupport us by supporting our partnersCirca Sports - Enter their contests for a chance to win your share of $14 Million - https://www.circasports.com/Underdog Fantasy code SGPN - 100% Deposit Match up to $100 - https://sg.pn/underdogWatch the Sports Gambling PodcastYouTube - https://sg.pn/YouTubeTwitch - https://sg.pn/TwitchFollow The Sports Gambling Podcast On Social MediaTwitter - http://www.twitter.com/gamblingpodcastInstagram - http://www.instagram.com/sportsgamblingpodcastTikTok - https://www.tiktok.com/@gamblingpodcastFacebook - http://www.facebook.com/sportsgamblingpodcastFollow The Hosts On Social MediaJeff Fox - http://www.twitter.com/jefffoxwriterDaniel Vreeland - http://www.twitter.com/gumbyvreelandShow - http://www.twitter.com/sgpnmmaGambling problem? Call 1-800-GAMBLER CO, DC, IL, IN, LA, MD, MS, NJ, OH, PA, TN, VA, WV, WY Call 877-8-HOPENY or text HOPENY (467369) (NY) Call 1-800-327-5050 (MA)21+ to wager. Please Gamble Responsibly. Call 1-800-NEXT-STEP (AZ), 1-800-522-4700 (KS, NV), 1-800 BETS-OFF (IA), 1-800-270-7117 for confidential help (MI) Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices JOIN the SGPN community #DegensOnlyExclusive Merch, Contests and Bonus Episodes ONLY on Patreon - https://sg.pn/patreonDiscuss with fellow degens on Discord - https://sg.pn/discordDownload The Free SGPN App - https://sgpn.appCheck out the Sports Gambling Podcast on YouTube - https://sg.pn/YouTubeCheck out our website - http://sportsgamblingpodcast.comSUPPORT us by supporting our partnersNYRA Racing code SGPN25 - $25 FREE BET and $200 Deposit Bonus - https://racing.nyrabets.com/sign-up-bonus/sgpn25?utm_source=sgpn&utm_medium=paid_social&utm_campaign=sgpn_25&utm_content=1080x1080Underdog Fantasy code MMASGPN - 100% Deposit Match up to $100 - https://play.underdogfantasy.com/p-sgpnGametime code SGPN - Download the Gametime app, create an account, and use code SGPN for $20 off your first purchase - https://gametime.co/Football Contest Proxy - Use promo code SGP to save $50 at - https://www.footballcontestproxy.com/ ADVERTISE with SGPNInterested in advertising? Contact sales@sgpn.ioWATCH the Sports Gambling PodcastYouTube - https://sg.pn/YouTubeTwitch - https://sg.pn/TwitchFOLLOW The Sports Gambling Podcast On Social MediaTwitter - http://www.twitter.com/gamblingpodcastInstagram - http://www.instagram.com/sportsgamblingpodcastTikTok - https://www.tiktok.com/@gamblingpodcastFacebook - http://www.facebook.com/sportsgamblingpodcastFOLLOW The Hosts On Social MediaJeff Fox - http://www.twitter.com/jefffoxwriterDaniel Vreeland - http://www.twitter.com/gumbyvreelandShow - http://www.twitter.com/sgpnmmaGambling problem? Call 1-800-GAMBLER CO, DC, IL, IN, LA, MD, MS, NJ, OH, PA, TN, VA, WV, WY Call 877-8-HOPENY or text HOPENY (467369) (NY) Call 1-800-327-5050 (MA)21+ to wager. Please Gamble Responsibly. Call 1-800-NEXT-STEP (AZ), 1-800-522-4700 (KS, NV), 1-800 BETS-OFF (IA), 1-800-270-7117 for confidential help (MI)
Jeff 'Chalkx' Fox & Daniel 'Gumby' Vreeland are back in your earholes with their UFC 291 main card betting guide! There may not be a 'real' title on the line Saturday, but UFC 291's main card is still a very solid five-fight lineup. And the boys like three dogs out of the five fights! Plus, a two-fight parlay that pays out +1787! Let's go! Listen in! Apple Spotify Join the SGPN community #DegensOnly Exclusive Merch, Contests and Bonus Episodes ONLY on Patreon - https://sg.pn/patreon Discuss with fellow degens on Discord - https://sg.pn/discord SGPN Merch Store - https://sg.pn/store Download The Free SGPN App - https://sgpn.app Check out the Sports Gambling Podcast on YouTube - https://sg.pn/YouTube Check out our website - http://sportsgamblingpodcast.com Support us by supporting our partners Circa Sports - Enter their contests for a chance to win your share of $14 Million - https://www.circasports.com/ Underdog Fantasy code SGPN - 100% Deposit Match up to $100 - https://sg.pn/underdog Watch the Sports Gambling Podcast YouTube - https://sg.pn/YouTube Twitch - https://sg.pn/Twitch Follow The Sports Gambling Podcast On Social Media Twitter - http://www.twitter.com/gamblingpodcast Instagram - http://www.instagram.com/sportsgamblingpodcast TikTok - https://www.tiktok.com/@gamblingpodcast Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/sportsgamblingpodcast Follow The Hosts On Social Media Jeff Fox - http://www.twitter.com/jefffoxwriter Daniel Vreeland - http://www.twitter.com/gumbyvreeland Show - http://www.twitter.com/sgpnmma Gambling problem? Call 1-800-GAMBLER CO, DC, IL, IN, LA, MD, MS, NJ, OH, PA, TN, VA, WV, WY Call 877-8-HOPENY or text HOPENY (467369) (NY) Call 1-800-327-5050 (MA) 21+ to wager. Please Gamble Responsibly. Call 1-800-NEXT-STEP (AZ), 1-800-522-4700 (KS, NV), 1-800 BETS-OFF (IA), 1-800-270-7117 for confidential help (MI) Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices
No, you cannot get your nails and hair done here...but you can get Tonic, Grinders, Tall Cans, Slushies, Butts, Frappes, Batteries for your Clicker, Hoodsies, Roadies...you have no idea what I'm talking about? --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/lostmass/message Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/lostmass/support
What were you wearing in the ‘90s, Slushies? Sleeveless flannel and crochet? Paco Rabanne? We're beguiled by Emily Pulfer-Terino's poems on this episode as we discuss how she slides us back to the ‘90s. She has us sniffing magazine perfume inserts and marveling at the properly cranky voice she invokes for an epigraph, borrowed from Vogue's letters to the editor. What were we thinking wearing all those shreds? Only the girls on those glossy pages know for sure. For more context, check out Karina Longworth's excellent podcast, You Must Remember This, and her recent deep dive into the bonkers eroticism of the 1990s. Plus, Sentimental Garbage's episode on Dirty Dancing featuring Curtis Sittenfeld. For a great collection of poems that draws its title from grunge-era jargon (kinda, sorta, wink, wink), we recommend a book we love by our pal Daniel Nester: Harsh Realm: My 1990s. This episode is brought to you by our sponsor Wilbur Records, who kindly introduced us to the artist is A.M.Mills whose song “Spaghetti with Loretta” now opens our show. At the table: Jason Schneiderman, Marion Wrenn, Kathleen Volk Miller, Samantha Neugebauer, and Dagne Forrest Emily Pulfer-Terino is a poet and writer whose work has appeared in Tupelo Quarterly, Hunger Mountain, The Collagist, The Southeast Review, Poetry Northwest, Stone Canoe, The Louisville Review, Juked, and other journals and anthologies. Her poetry chapbook, Stays the Heart, is published by Finishing Line Press. She has been a Tennessee Williams Poetry Scholar at the Sewanee Writers' Conference and has been granted a fellowship for creative nonfiction at the Vermont Studio Center. She holds an MFA in creative writing from Syracuse University, and she lives in Western Massachusetts. Author website: http://emilypulferterino.com/ Instagram: @epulferterino Grunge & Glory “You're kidding. Tell me you're kidding. At least I'll know where to find my new wardrobe this year...in the nearest dumpster…talk about the Emperor's New Clothes. Tsk, tsk.”—(Letter to the Editor)[1] What's more glorious than a girl in a field, curled in the whorl of a deer bed, alfalfa haloing her dreams of fashion magazines while she plies matted hay, untatting her world? Bales score the landscape, parceling endlessness, parsing this solo tableau, while her heroes wrench their music into being in Seattle, gray, time zones away. What's grunge if not her dense crochet of castoff couture curated from dumpsters and worn with a frisson of pride and shame: flowering nightgown, old ski boots, sweater turned lace in places by moths and age? And this field like where models pose in Vogue, each page itself a piece of land and an ethos framed inside a storyboard. Scala Naturae Like prying pods of milkweed so those astral seeds effuse— unseaming magazine ads for perfume. Anointing my wrists with scented glue, running each over the edge of a page, testing scents I aspired to buy and classifying my olfactory taxonomy. Grass evoked the world I'd known with hints of rain and magnolia slight as fog above an unmown field. DNA's rosemary, oakmoss, and mint, ancient and clear as purpose; glass spiraled bottle signifying sentience and enduring iteration. Both ethereal and hyperreal, Destiny offered apricots, orchids, and roses-- bottle opaque as an eyelid, veil of petals sheer as promise. Samsara was amber, sandalwood, ylang ylang, peach. Syllabically lulling, its s and a extending, repeating, suggesting endlessness. Cycle of birth and death rebranded as serenity in ongoingness. Angel's burst of praline and patchouli lit the crystal facets of that star, making heaven of my pulse and ordinary air. [1] Wynne Bittlinger, letter to the editor in Vogue US, February 1993
In what could possibly be our best show yet, Biscuit talks about his vacation and his love of Arkansas, we preciate cha, Pam! Dave has a car alarm story and our faces still hurt, We are Thin ICE! Cheese rolling race "winner", Scott's dulcimer, Travis Walton, the X-Files show up, and so much more, Twisting grips and packing dips son! You're hanging out with the one and only #theOld77Podcast! --- Join our clubhouse and get exclusive After Hours content and early access to episodes. Join today at https://www.patreon.com/theold77podcast Call or text the Old 77 Listener Line at (573) 246-0779 Follow #theOld77Podcast on any of our links below! Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/TheOld77Podcast Twitter - https://twitter.com/theOld77Podcast Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/theold77podcast/ Spotify - https://open.spotify.com/show/3nXUcIX2DVbK9LAh9LafU8?si=dd34127caa7344cd --- BIG UPPS to our Patreon Clubhouse Members! *Kass Kass *Our guy Kevin! *Jamie from In the Groove Records - Jeff City *Dub I.Z. and the fam over at Chess Team Records *JT from Tower Studios and the Paranormal Son *"Sir" Biscuit Strength - THANK YOU! --- For business inquiries don't hesitate to get in touch with us at theold77podcast@gmail.com See our business portfolio for a list of services we offer at the link below. https://theold77podcast.myportfolio
Finding flow in modern life is increasingly challenging, Slushies, but we sure found it here in two poems by Erica Wright. Loosely defined as the melting of action and consciousness into a single state, flow in poetry allows us to fully inhabit the world or experience conjured up by the poet. Nothing serves to distract or pull the reader out of the poem. How do we get there? There isn't just one way. It helps when the poem's form is attuned to the pacing required by the subject matter or focus. Strong beginnings always help -- and there are two fantastic ones here -- as well as a system of imagery that's both relatable and unexpected. In “Marine Biology”, we see a conversational style used in parts of the poem that's deeply grounding, and in “Too Many Animal Stories” the poem's form supports its dense mosaic of images and moments. This episode is brought to you by our sponsor Wilbur Records, who kindly introduced us to the artist is A.M.Mills whose song “Spaghetti with Loretta” now opens our show. At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Jason Schneiderman, and Dagne Forrest. Erica Wright's latest poetry collection is All the Bayou Stories End with Drowned (Black Lawrence Press). She lives in Knoxville, Tennessee with her family where she enjoys looking at the mountains and not camping in them. Socials: Twitter @eawright, Instagram @ericawrightwrites, Facebook @ericawrightauthor, Author website Marine Biology Not even my dog knows me, hovers outside the bathroom as I wash blood from the porcelain, wipe up the floors. I feel more at ease with the mess than the pain. We're not supposed to talk about that anyway, my fleet of would-be mothers who never labored but birthed something too. Mine half-seahorse, half-anemone like something you'd find in an off-season coastal gift shop after looking for whales and not finding any whales. And now my skin turns blue as if my veins are submarines surfacing after too long underwater. Did you know the Navy studies sharks in hopes of making better ships? Can you imagine? Mariners on megalodons. Let's name them after our ancestors. Let's hold the notion of them inside our heads until they're real. Too Many Animal Stories In the same town where a man's gun discharged, killing a woman across the street, we ordered sandwiches and watched tourists rent inner tubes to hold their bodies up in the river below. I've been sick for weeks now, bad sick at first, and now I can hold myself up. You started grinding your teeth at night, and it hurts to move your jaw in the morning. We joke about low points. We joke about how we'll never leave this house again. Of all the days to miss, I can't say why I latched onto that one in Helen, Georgia. We find a movie about the Trans Am Bike Race, and I make a joke about my dad's old car with a phoenix on the hood, its wings spread with such precision that they never spilled over the sides. Sometimes a snake hid underneath and was so long it could stretch its body from one side of the two-lane road to the other— tail in one ditch, head in the other— a perversion of that joke about the chicken. The thing about being sick while the world has stopped is that I start to wonder if it's all a carousel game, and we're being punished for trying to jump off. When I push myself off the bathroom floor again, the tiles won't stop spinning. Asbestos. I remember the real estate agent warned us about asbestos and not to take them out ourselves. I like the bathroom. The porcelain tub feels like ice when I rest my head against the side, wait for stillness. You take out the trash for us because of the rats. I don't mind them, but once when one ran across my foot, I couldn't get clean enough after. The neighbors coo over our new dog, leave chicken bones for her, which we pry from her teeth. Sometimes the incisors scrape my skin, and she never apologizes for her nature. I apologize for mine all the time. I'd prefer to be hearty, the kind of traveler who could take a cross-country train alone and sleep sitting up, living on trail mix and Coke. Not the one who needs sea bands. They sound like the bracelets of some strong-willed mermaid who doesn't care what anybody thinks of her, but they're cheap elastic with plastic eyes. Outside my window, the wind harasses the trees and their new leaves, which are less impressive than the old ones. Last year, a grim lived there, and I'd make up stories for him before bed. Not that he slept. Not that I know of. There once was a hellhound who loathed the predator rigamarole. He disliked the rending of flesh and gnawing of bones. The howling he could take or leave. One day sheep wandered below him. They smelled of honeysuckle and dirt. They didn't bite each other then pretend they were joking. He sewed his costume right away. There's not much more I can say about the rat from earlier. He fell from a trash bag and leapt at me, tiny claws digging into my shoe. A medium-sized rat. They say they're more afraid of us than we are of dying.
For a really fresh take on obsession, take a look here Slushies! Lisa Gordon's short story is a masterclass in taking a popular form and quietly exploding it (pun intended). By turns deeply human, comical, sad, and just a little bit “out there”, Gordon's story sweeps alongside a protagonist whose undying love for civilian astronaut Christa McAuliffe drives a story with the hallmarks of space exploration. NASA's obsessive attention to detail, understanding of real world factors, and commitment to thinking outside the box are shared by Gordon, who tells a surprising and rewarding story. You might want to jump down the page and read or listen to it in full first, as there are spoilers in our discussion! Listen to the story Paul on Earth in its entirety (separate from podcast reading) And in the spirit of confession that permeates this story, our team is confessing their obsessions: Kathleen Volk Miller – podcasts and keeping her wine racks full (purely for aesthetic reasons!) Jason Schneiderman – the original Doctor Who series (1963-1989), keeping it old school! Marion Wrenn – onion dip (very hard to find in Abu Dhabi, so it's her go-to when she's Stateside!) Samantha Neugebauer – old tin boxes Dagne Forrest – space exploration and marzipan You might want to read these related links: All Addicts Anonymous Christa McAuliffe and the 1986 Challenger explosion Parasocial relationships The Week in Longing, Dagne Forrest on Rust+ Moth (a recent poem by one of our editors that references the Challenger explosion and the late 2022 recovery of a piece of the shuttle off the Florida coast) This episode is brought to you by our sponsor Wilbur Records, who kindly introduced us to the artist is A.M.Mills whose song “Spaghetti with Loretta” now opens our show. At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Jason Schneiderman, Marion Wrenn, Dagne Forrest, and Samantha Neugebauer, as well as technical team Ta'Liyah Thomas, Anthony Luong, and Sebastian Remetta Lisa Gordon's short fiction has been published in Paper Darts, ANMLY, Hypertext, Storychord and elsewhere. She lives in the Boston area and is working on two novels. Paul on Earth Paul had a hard time concentrating on the wedding. Maybeth had tears in her eyes, but then again, she cried at everything. The rabbi was saying words about how important trust is when it comes to love. Maybeth took his hands. She had nice, soft, small hands—Paul always liked that about her. She could do a lot with those hands: not least of which, much earlier in the morning, even though they weren't supposed to see each other until the wedding (Maybeth had wanted it that way) he knocked on the door of her hotel room. Tap tap, tap tap, tap tap, so she would know it was him. He needed her, he said. He needed her to touch him. And she did. And he'd felt better, but only for a moment. He still couldn't get Christa out of his mind. He still looked her up. Often. All the time, you might say. It had been years since 1986, but still—she was a household name. Christa McAuliffe. The whole thing had affected everyone, especially school children. It was one of Ronald Reagan's most celebrated speeches, and he'd been a former movie star! Not that most people remember that. Now, there's a show about it on Netflix. He still hadn't watched it. He couldn't bring himself to do it. She was still alive inside him like a constellation, burning layers through his skin. And now he was getting married, again, to another very, very nice lady. She knew everything, and she forgave him. He was getting a chance to start over. “Paul, Maybeth, do you take one another?” the rabbi said. “I do,” Maybeth said, squeezing his hands. “Yes,” Paul said. “I mean, I do. Yes.” Little lines crinkled adoringly around Maybeth's eyes. Her eyes were the color of limestone. “Then it is my honor. To announce. You as husband and wife, to one another.” The guests roared as ceremoniously as a small crowd can, gathering to their feet, a wave of low thundering applause ebbed and flowed as they kissed. Paul knew next to none of them, but luckily, Maybeth had many friends. She was liked by many people, unlike Paul. It was one of the things Paul told her when they first met: I won't bring much to your life. I've tried to change but— She had interrupted him. “That's for me to decide.” Maybeth's lips were slick with lipstick and he worried, for a moment, he'd look like a clown. But he could feel her smiling through her mouth, through her kissing, and she kissed him with abandon, and he let her. He loved her. He really wanted to love her. * * * Paul was 15 when Christa McAuliffe was his teacher, and he fell for her like a rocket burning through the universe. (It was a cheap analogy, he knew that. It was cliché, obvious. But it was how he felt.) She was so pretty—! Just so, so pretty. All the school boys seemed to like the girls with big hips and big hair and pink mouths, always open. It was the early 80s, after all. But not Paul. It was Mrs. McAuliffe, with her brown eyes wide as planets, her tall teeth, her curly hair, she was—well, she was a lot of things, but mostly, she was the mother figure he'd needed at the same time his sexuality was burgeoning, so she represented the classic oedipal complex, except a little inverted, for Paul. At least, that's what he was told in therapy, later in life. It seemed true enough. He accepted it. But he couldn't change his behavior. His behavior didn't take hold until after the explosion. She wasn't even his teacher then—she'd moved on to another school, and Paul was floundering without her presence to steady him. To give him something to look forward to. But it was after that when his obsession really bloomed. He was devastated for her two children. Of her husband, he was fiercely jealous—jealous that he got to be the husband, even after she'd died. Jealous that he could mourn, really mourn. He called their house often, back then. He's not proud of it, but he did it. He got to know the sounds of all of their voices: the little girl's, the young boy's, the husband's. Lots of people were calling then, obviously. It wasn't too invasive. But they did change their phone number, later. Unlisted, of course. Paul was saddened. Deeply. Back then—then being, before the internet—there was only so much he could do. Newspapers stopped reporting. He kept copies of some of the ones he could find, the issue of People Magazine with her face on it, and the like. He kept them in a notebook. He went to college. He went to class. He tried to connect his obsession with the idea that maybe he was obsessed with space—! Yes, that had to be it! He majored in astronomy, but he just couldn't take to it. It was too mathematical. Too science-oriented. Christa had been his English teacher. It was escapism, he preferred. He graduated with a degree in Literature and asked Sandy to marry him. It was what you were supposed to do. She expected it, but she was happy, very happy. They lived in a little apartment in Boston for a few years, while she finished her Masters' degree at BU. He took a teaching job in a small town called Concord, west of Boston, in—what else? English. It was not lost on him that Concord—albeit, New Hampshire—was where Christa was from. And he'd learned that she'd lived for some time in Framingham, Massachusetts. It was not far from Concord, not far at all. He spent his days driving around strange neighborhoods, aimlessly, wandering, or in the parking lot of the high school she'd attended, which was still there. He told Sandy he'd started a chess club for his students. He'd never played chess in his life, but she believed him. That was all for a long, long time. He was happy enough. He enjoyed teaching, though he feared he wasn't very good at it. When he closed his eyes, he could still see Christa's back, the way her arm would raise to the chalkboard, how her writing made a pleasant sound. Tap tap, tap tap. He'd developed some decent cooking skills, and Sandy baked, and they ate well. They made love occasionally, and then frequently, because Sandy wanted badly to have children. Paul was thankful that they were inexperienced lovers—they'd only really had each other—and didn't know that he didn't touch her the way a man does when he loves a woman. When he's in love with her. But after a year or so, the test results came back with bad news: she wouldn't be able to bear children. And she stopped turning to him in bed. And Paul found that he was pleased. It allowed space in his mind for the obsession to grow. And grow, grow it did. It was like a whole other place in his mind he could turn to, retreat into: he could go into different parts of Christa's body and inhabit them, and they were in love in a way that didn't exist on Earth—it was unique to them, and them only, and it was everything; it was his world. Years passed. Years upon years. Until finally, one day, he was arrested. A little girl in the town of Framingham, Mass. had been abducted. She'd been missing for three days and discovered later, in the conservation land lining the towns' perimeter, murdered, sexually abused. Such an awful, tragic thing. Paul had been seen too often in her neighborhood, and others nearby, idling around in his brown Pontiac, a stranger. His likeness matched the description of the abductor: tall, glasses, a non-descript male. He was taken to the station and questioned for hours. He was bewildered. Truly and simply bewildered. He wouldn't have known where to begin, is what he said. “Where to begin with what?” the detective had said. “With stealing a child,” Paul had whispered. “With touching a child.” He clasped and unclasped his hands. Yes, he'd been around the neighborhood. Often, on and off, for years. No, he had no business there, knew no one, not a soul who lived there. No, he had no alibi—he had, indeed, been driving around that very night. He'd been lying to his wife for so long he'd begun to believe there was a chess club. The only way out was the truth. “McAuliffe,” they'd said. “The teacher astronaut lady? The one who got blown up?” The detective. A lawyer. Repeated it, as if they hadn't heard him right. Couldn't have possibly heard him right. “Yes,” Paul said. “That's the one.” He told them about the file he kept in the magazine in the downstairs bathroom. They sent a squad to get it, and his wife followed behind, hysterical. The questioning was relentless. He was shoved in a cell for 14 hours. Eventually, they found the right man. He'd committed a similar crime in Western Mass., in the Berkshires. They opened the door to his cell and he was free to go. But they recommended he get therapy. “We think you're a little nutso,” one of the policeman said, on his way out. Behind him, echos of laughter. He started his car—it sputtered and died. It was a freezing, gray day in November. Sandy wouldn't pick him up. He tried to hitch, but no one would stop for a man who looked like the man who abducted children. Eventually, he called a cab. It cost him $143 to get home, and, not having that kind of money on him, the cabbie had to drive him to a bank. He watched the cabbie eying him in the rearview mirror as he peeled away. Sandy left, which didn't surprise Paul in the slightest. What did surprise Paul was how little he cared. Somehow, they didn't fire him. He'd thought they would have, but they didn't. (“You didn't commit the crime, Paul,” the principal said, disapprovingly. As if he'd wanted him to have been the criminal.) His time was his own, finally. He couldn't drive around the way he used to, which left a void in his life he wasn't sure how he'd fill. But it turned out, it wasn't as hard as he thought. He grocery shopped and cooked elaborate meals, gaining weight, filling out in places he didn't think could grow. He masturbated on the couch as he pleased. He read different books and grew excited by new lesson plans. He even became energized by teaching in new ways. His life, it seemed, was changing. Christa was there—she would always be there—but he needed her less and less. But then, as if out of nowhere, the internet became faster and stronger and more ubiquitous, and suddenly, the world was at his fingertips—anything he wanted could be his, information of any kind—and, well. Life took on new meaning. He bought a printer. He printed everything. He posted the photos, the articles, up around his house, a shrine. He was scared of himself. His teaching suffered. He stopped eating. He was fired. He'd hit rock bottom. And then, one day—it really was like that, just one day—he saw an advertisement for Addicts Anonymous. Whatever you're addicted to, we can help, is what it said. Paul went. He didn't know what his life had become and he didn't want to give up, not yet. He was 40 years old. His father had died long ago. Sandy had moved to Virginia, adopted a daughter, gotten a dog. He drove to the meeting, concentrating on the way the cold winter air felt in his lungs. And at the meeting, he met Maybeth. She was addicted to painkillers. She was a tiny, cute thing. Sprightly. Energetic. “But I have a dark side,” she said, when she spoke to the room. She'd been watching Paul carefully. He could feel it, even when he turned away. After the session, she approached him. “I'm looking for a new boyfriend,” she said. “Addictions don't bother me.” “Even mine?” Paul had said. “Even yours,” she had said. He'd addressed the room—all 27 of them (he'd counted) and he'd said, “Hi, I'm Paul. And I don't know why. Or maybe I do. But—and sorry if this freaks anyone out—I'm addicted to Christa McAuliffe.” There'd been chatter, a couple of laughs. Some of them looked at him quizzically. He heard someone whisper to someone else “Challenger”. And he'd felt very much like crying. It was the first time he'd felt like crying in—well, maybe ever. Since he could remember. And it felt like being opened, like a present. When he told that to Maybeth, she cried. “I'm your present,” she'd said. “And you're mine.” She smiled into his neck and curled up in his lap like a little dog. Paul held her. Never had his arms been so full. He closed his eyes and tunneled through space, slowly at first, just exploring, until he was rocketing through her again, ready to find what he was looking for.
We are enswirled in this episode, Slushies, enswirled! We discuss three poems by John Sibley Willliams, two of which are ghazals. Williams' poems are the gravitational force around which our conversation about craft, form, fluidity, identity, and the flux and spaciousness found inside poetry spirals. Williams' poems draw the swirl of our attention not only to the choices he makes on the page but to Agha Shahad Ali's rules for real ghazals, Williams' poetic conversation with Tarfia Faizullah, and his nod to Kavek Akbar's “Gloves”. There is a pun these show notes want to make about guzzling ghazals, Slushies, but we are trying hard to resist it… At the table: Marion Wrenn, Jason Schneiderman, Kathleen Volk Miller, Dagne Forrest, Samantha Neugebauer This episode is brought to you by one of our sponsors, Wilbur Records, who kindly introduced us to the artist A.M.Mills, whose song “Spaghetti with Loretta” now opens our show. John Sibley Williams is the author of nine poetry collections, most recently Scale Model of a Country at Dawn (Cider Press Review Poetry Award) and The Drowning House (Elixir Press Poetry Award). He serves as editor of The Inflectionist Review, Poetry Editor at Kelson Books, and founder of the Caesura Poetry Workshop series. He lives in Portland, Oregon with his partner, twin biracial six-year-olds (one of whom is beautifully transgender), a boisterous Boston Terrier, and a basement full of horror movie memorabilia. Author website, Facebook @ john.sibleywilliams Ghazal for Transparency / for Reflection My ghosts breathe accusingly—a winter mass, a mirror's impermanent erasure—again shaving I'm sorry from the face over my face in the glass. It's not just the birds—their abridged flight, the stains the sky wears today through this washable window—but my children's tiny hands absolving the glass. Of guilt? Of shame? Is it his blood raging generations through my veins or this white- washed silence compelling me to pull our history, face-by-face, from its frames of glass? All this uneaten grain filling silo after silo—always at dusk, in my mind—swarmed now with mealworms & mites & someone else's hunger. How it cuts the tongue like shards of glass. & those goddamned honeycombs, failing again. How our neighbor's unable to keep his bees close enough to cultivate. Our house too is a small box of dust & wing & against the glass separating us from the world curtains blur our reflections like rain. Like stars cutting through cloud, a sustainable song. May my girls never be dead enough to fear themselves in our glass. Ghazal Beginning & Ending with Lines from Tarfia Faizullah Let me break free from these lace-frail microscopic bodies. My breath (always shared); trace it back to unmasked foreign bodies. Taking that last winter deep into her lungs. Breathe, I remind her. & remember me a child, Mom, not this unrecognizable foreign body. The sky's aperture widens. Sight ≠ witness. The organ's rusty song catches in the rafters (unascended). & all this rain leaking down on us like foreign bodies. Grey fox. White cells. Families fleeing one home for (hopes of) another. Some borders, perhaps, are meant to be trespassed by unforeign bodies. Row after perfect row = harvest. Harvest ≠ everyone is fed. Sated. Breaking up from the earth beneath, star thistle & bindweed. To us, foreign bodies. The day an autumn orphan, & we're yanking roots. My daughter's tiny misgendered fingers in mine, (pulling. Together), no body is foreign. Field of Anchors — for Kaveh Akbar Darkness on both sides. & wild grasses. Sun-hurt. Browning. So as not to drift. Too far from shore. A man. Palms the tiny church inside. The warm casing. Inside a god. Prays to another god. For more. Of himself. More devotion. One more detonation. Of roses. Less blood next time. Less field. Without end. Or is it more. That's required to make a mirror. Of each window. All that untilled light. All that goddamn reflection. The old maple out back. No longer. A noose swinging from it. Lifts its arms. In praise of its leaves. Fallen & otherwise. Only a god. My grandmother promised. Can beat the trees. Of its birds. Can lullaby. The field into paradise. Only fear can. Halleluiah the anchors from their green. Deerless. Wolf-filled. Moorings. Or is it. Love. When I open the front gate. Rusting. Still. Despite drought. Despite me. I hear. My children playing with. The blood inside. The roses. Inside the bullet. An impossible anchor. A darkness. That gives a people. Its name.
Are you ready to get primal, Slushies? We look at poems of birth and mothering that call on the senses as they shift between what's animal and what's human in us. Kathy celebrates the pure, messy pleasure of a classic tomato sandwich and Jason reminds us why an irregular opening line can be the hook a poem needs, while we all marvel at a poem's ability to dazzle us with changing perspectives, locations, and personas. Oh, and strong titles get some much deserved love too. This episode is brought to you by our sponsor Wilbur Records, who kindly introduced us to the artist is A.M.Mills whose song “Spaghetti with Loretta” now opens our show. At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Jason Schneiderman, Samantha Neugebauer, and Dagne Forrest Sarah Elkins lives in southern West Virginia where she is rounding the final curve of a four-year term as a councilperson in the City of Lewisburg, population 3,700ish. She is also chair of the Parks Commission (Yes, you should be thinking Leslie Knope). Sarah and her husband Max run Hammer Cycles, a bicycle shop in White Sulphur Springs, WV. She and Max founded and coach the Greenbrier Valley Hellbenders Youth Mountain Bike Team and work tirelessly on trail advocacy and mountain bike initiatives throughout the region. Sarah's son, Tad, is a high school freshman and loves hearing poems about his birth and progression through puberty. Oh, yeah, Sarah writes poetry. That's what she loves to do most. Therefore, she fills her time with all the aforementioned stuff to remain at an appropriate level of disequilibrium from which the poetry springs. Website: SarahElkins.com Birthing The summer before my son was born, I ate tomato sandwiches with mayonnaise, salt and pepper. The rain was so heavy in June, the fruit swelled on the vines and their skins ripped. I took big bites holding thick bread with two hands, pink rainwater running down both forearms to my elbows—everything reduced, then, to hunger. At night, curled on my side in the un-airconditioned dark I dreamt of big cats' razor tongues dragging the length of my back, saber teeth at my throat, not tearing the skin but feeling for pulse, their muscled hips coaxing me into the sweaty delirium of my final weeks. The cats returned every night until twenty-six hours before I howled him into being, I opened. All the rain of June, and July leaving me for the hardwood floor where I crouched on all fours looking for flecks of vernix, tasting my wet fingers, sniffing the sweet water for signs it was time. The cats slunk away until now, eating this tomato sandwich, my first in twelve years— I recall I was a panther once. From the Tall Grass I floss at night after steak and butter. My house: unguarded range, bison huffing, ice-faced, hooves stamping an echo stutter. I do nothing in this boundless nothing. No thought, no synapse firing. Still hands still stained—berry juice of an empty morning. This room-less space, a translucent thin will through which I, good sow, whiff my boy's homing. His trek complete, except for the recount— bighorn sheep, bull moose, near miss, eagle plume. I toss one sleek mink to the catamount. The grass lies down; walls rise around my room. Ursa fades. A house cat lurks in willow. I sip gin, smooth the pelt of my pillows.
Can you lean into experience without always needing meaning, Slushies? The psalm is a Christian form similar to a song or poem where meaning is often elusive unless the reader is prepared to put in the work. Sometimes, though, things just are, and we certainly encounter that here in some very satisfying ways. We talk about the importance of the pause or caesura in poetry, proofreading, and powerful image systems. We also just enjoy the experience of reading two gorgeously rendered poems full of both the specific and the mysterious. Links to things we discuss that you may dig: Poetry Foundation: Caesura definition Flannery O'Connor's The Violent Bear It Away Robert Hayden's Those Winter Sundays This episode is brought to you by our sponsor Wilbur Records, who kindly introduced us to the artist is A.M.Mills whose song “Spaghetti with Loretta” now opens our show. At the table: Marion Wrenn, Kathleen Volk Miller, Samantha Neugebauer, and Dagne Forrest John T. Leonard is a writer, educator, and poetry editor for Twyckenham Notes and The Glacier. He holds an M.A. in English from Indiana University. His previous works have appeared in Chiron Review, December Magazine, North Dakota Review, Ethel Zine, Louisiana Literature, Jelly Bucket, Mud Season Review, Nimrod International Journal, The Indianapolis Review, Genre: Urban Arts, and Trailer Park Quarterly among others. He lives in Elkhart, Indiana with his wife, three cats, and two dogs. Socials: Twitter @jotyleon and @TwyckenhamNotes Psalm Prone to wonder. Lord, I feel it. Nomad, no man, no son, father, sun. I am bright, rusted, and wretched. You turned the doorknob right, hot shower and cold bathroom tile. I was wrapped in that small, soaked rug. A place that filled the garden of our souls, superior and sewn, stones dancing across a lake. Look how Christian a puddle of vomit can be. You held me, let me breathe into your arm. You forked my tongue and sewed a map to North Dakota with that black medical lace. For Hell's sake, I am holy, holy, calm, and true. Be escaped. Be fallen, black, and blue. My call to evaporate, pulled upwards to the real adventure. Wide awake now, bruised vanity, summer of head colds and bodies washed up on the pebbled shore. If I took it back, my sunglassed future glance, my walk of muses, my pacing lonely apartments, spitting on each and every brick. If I took it back, but not what I've suddenly become: a contrail of promises, sci-fi crimes, Saturn in the traffic. I'm chasing altars to the daylight of you. Feels like I feel it, prone to rip the husk of your lips. Still, the rusted son of red starlight, gospel music touching lovers in the limo behind the hearse. I am lime, let moonlight citrus me further. Then Sunday will come and sweep it all away, back into the rose quartz river of a psalm. Fledgling Waking up to the white bone of dawn; memory of light, half-life of darkness, a daily prophecy of frozen floorboards. This cold, fading silence of Sunday morning, falling like the ash of a thirty-year volcanic winter. The way all of our merit would vanish, if we gave up a moment of the day to plunge back into our dreams. Light, now imagined as radiant cloud or burning crown. The slow trudge outside, curse and prayer of woodpile. Eastern red cedar still asleep: erasure of termites, black snake of phone line limp with snow, sick fledgling whose eyes didn't close, not even once throughout the night; who waited out the insectile buzz of street lamps, waited for one final glimpse of flame. Moments now, moments, and the flick of my lighter will catch its eye. The soft glow of cherry, the ritual of my ignorance, the weeks of feeling watched—so full of myself that I thought it must be God. By dusk, one of us dead and the other, none the wiser.
There's a lot packed into this episode, Slushies, including sibilance and balancing gravity with a light touch. Differing perspectives and the resonance of history, both real and mythical, cascade through a trio of poems by Danielle Roberts. Jason worries that his erudition has collapsed momentarily, Kathy loves the rush of wanting to immediately re-read a poem, and Samantha reminds us of an Anne Carson line: “Aristotle says that metaphor causes the mind to experience itself in the act of making a mistake.” Oh, and Marion brings to life the idea of hearing a baby's cries in the ceiling when she recounts living in the apartment below a family with newborn triplets! Links to things we discuss that you may dig: Jeanann Verlee's Helen Considers Leaving Troy George Eliot's Middlemarch Anne Carson's Essay on What I Think About Most Elizabeth Bishop's Collected Letters Jason Schneiderman's How the Sonnet Turns: From a Fold to a Helix, APR Volume 49, Issue 3 British Antarctic Survey: Ice cores and climate change The Norton Reader Smartless Podcast (Jason Bateman, Sean Hayes, Will Arnett) This episode is brought to you by our sponsor Wilbur Records, who kindly introduced us to the artist is A.M.Mills whose song “Spaghetti with Loretta” now opens our show. At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Marion Wrenn, Samantha Neugebauer, and Jason Schneiderman Danielle Roberts is a queer poet from California. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Atlanta Review, DMQ Review, Okay Donkey, Prairie Schooner, Reed Magazine & others. When not writing poetry, she can be found drinking too much tea & pestering the nearest cat. Read more of her at sonnetscribbler.com. Socials: Instagram: @sonnetscribbler How can I leave this behind? after Jeanann Verlee's Helen Considers Leaving Troy after a floral gin cocktail Do I want to live and die my whole life here— buried in county lines—or is it time to stretch the map? There's more to plan than simply running away. while holding my niece Picking up the baby doesn't help: I smell her hair & wonder if she thinks of me when I'm out of sight. Will she know? Her eyes stare into the distance along with mine. Maybe she travels in her dreams. Maybe she lives elsewhere. while eating dinner Gorging myself on routine, I chew bread & think about the bagels in New York. I live these sour- dough rituals—oven baked in centuries of families. A young tradition bound by water on all sides. They say it's in the water. Doubtful, I gnaw on my nails. when people ask if I'll have kids Come on, Karen—I just blew up my life & you're asking if I'm ready to be a sacred vessel? The only answer I can give is to flee far away from anyone who had dreams for me or thought I could be marriage material. Go where all folks care about is which street I live above in the gridlocked graph or whether I'm walking fast enough. Blend. It would be easier than questions of barreness. when my ex wants to get back together Absolutely not. from the freeway exit Behind the wheel of my car, I carve trenches again—circle and retrace my path—map the small universe on foot, pace my cage. Maybe I take to the night sky or simply head east until I hit water. Gorges and grooves heal, scarred cutting board life. Do I keep driving? Where do I even go from here? These dreams that weren't mine festering in my wake. What city takes such hazardous rot? How do I leave my family behind? How do I tell them I'm already gone? Extracting memories[1] Speak to me in layered tongues of bitten snow, slow molars carved with frost collected in the valleys between your teeth. The scientist bores a core— plucks the long memory from each glacier—this meter holds your first bicycle ride, this a bridal veil of volcanic ash from Pompeii, six cylinders of centuries trespass the sterile air—blink at the unforgiving sun. From the dentist chair, you look up at the light and this persistent body shrinks—cracked with age and use. Our indestructible jaws crumble with heat, losing enameled eons to inaction, forgetting to stitch our gums with floss. It's far too late to mend our habits now: best to preserve what we can. Each line, a thought pulled out of context— precious archive of time before tales. We transcribe the answers to our final test without any chance of knowing the questions. Reassurance 1— My cat startles & I tell her nothing bad is happening, but we both know that's a lie on a large enough scale. She hears the neighbors' doors slam, the child in the ceiling crying like an injured mouse. She knows footfalls on the landing lead to the uninvited lead to us coaxing her to accept strangers in her home. She knows the rush of sirens down Oak or shouts from the narrow park must mean something in the same way we all know that one thing always leads to another. She turns a pale eye towards me as if to say just because it's not happening to me doesn't mean it's not happening. 2— As we wade into the cold mountain lake, my sister promises me nothing's going to touch your feet—maybe some grass or a fish, but I've never seen anything bad here. She shifts the baby to her other hip & walks deeper. Her husband rows away from the widening rings of sunscreen filming the top of the swampy water, oil slick of caution. I know she loves me. Later, I scramble onto the inflatable raft & hold the baby & my breath. My sister stays rooted in the water—extracting the implanted leeches from between my toes—doesn't glance down at her own feet. Not even once. Her husband saw the signposts on the shore & told no one. He thought they didn't apply anymore: he's never noticed anything in the waters. 3— My boss sends a message before an important meeting to ask if I can still lead in light of the news. I reassure him yes, I'm in California—I'm not affected for now. In the crowded room, the men make small talk, but have nothing to say. [1] Ice cores and climate change - British Antarctic Survey
Slushies, get ready for some trailblazing poems in the form of mathematical proofs, theorems, and other types of mathematical reasoning that level their gaze at heartbreak. One poem even embeds a second poem as a footnote. Alex reminds us all of the hermit crab essay/poem format, prompting Sam to recall Maggie Nelson's Bluets, in which the end of a powerful love is likened to the experience of shedding yet still living with an abandoned skin or shell. Come along for a ride with some poetic work that's furious and logical in equal measure! Links to things we discuss that you may dig: Joe Wenderoth's Letters to Wendy's Samantha Hunt's The Seas Maggie Nelson's Bluets This episode is brought to you by our sponsor Wilbur Records, who kindly introduced us to the artist is A.M.Mills whose song “Spaghetti with Loretta” now opens our show. At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Marion Wrenn, Samantha Neugebauer, Alex J Tunney, and Dagne Forrest Rei Alta is a black writer, disciple of science, artist, and proud supernerd. She resides in Massachusetts where she was born and raised. Rei spends most of her time supporting brilliant young people from historically marginalized communities in their exploration of science and engineering. Socials: Instagram: @reialtaspeak Inflection Point 1b Theorem 1.1. The pain, longing, and ambivalence I feel related to this particular past lover (hereafter “him”, “he” or “you”) is not unhealthy. Proof: By definition, “Time heals all wounds.” Suppose for all purposes, 11 years is considered to be ‘Time'. It is true that 11 years have passed, however I am not healed. Thus, this thing I feel is not really a wound. Theorem 1.2. There exists a value in this lover that I use to cope with a deficiency in my current state of being. Proof: By Theorem 1.1, this lover does not represent some larger, unresolved issue. It is true, however, that I still have been unable to let him go. Therefore, he must be notable for a different reason. By supposition, that different reason is that he and I had an unrivaled connection. I.e. While there is no such thing as soulmates, our cognitive compatibility was substantially higher than that of my previously observed matches. Hence, I feel an intensity through recollecting him such that most other things pale in comparison. Therefore, I remember him in order to feel something when I don't. Theorem 2.1. There exists an absolute truth about why I loved him and why I haven't been able to let go. Proof: By definition, “All things happen for a reason.” Since it is true that loving him and being unable to let go has happened, there must be a reason that caused it. This reason must be the truth. Suppose not; i.e., suppose this reason was not the truth. Then it would not have possessed the power necessary to cause such a consequential thing to happen. Such a consequential thing did happen. Thus, there is an attributable reason that is the truth. Theorem 2.2. I must understand why I have not been able to let go—in order to let go. Proof: By my own definition, I am a finder of truth. By Theorem 2.1, there is a truth to be found. If there is a truth I have not yet found, then I must find it in order to exist since finding truth defines me. Thus, I have no path forward but to find the truth. ____________________________________________________________________________ CAVEAT: Due to the following factors, the validity of the proofs outlined above is questionable: Invalid underlying assumptions Faulty reasoning Insufficient information As a result, extrapolation based on the conclusions laid out in the preceding section is not advised. ----more---- wave height CREST you approached after cycles of fire there was a tectonic shift fueled by molten rock and dressed up decay i believed your promise this time around — i felt it lift my feet TROUGH1 you receded re-defining “forever” as “only thirteen days” (a real trailblazer!) and like eddies forming behind Pinnacle Rock the reverse current dragged me in asymmetric swirls [1] i wish my love became a two-toed sloth like the algae on its fur it ignores his simple existence i wish my love became a deep sea vent spewing sulfur to fill his nostrils and make him gag i wish my love strutted down the cobblestones in heels with a long, deliberate stride and a toss of its hair ----more---- I Outline the Hypotheses I got this This is 101 I simply need to determine what a human woman should feel in this situation based on whether or not I can reject the null: H0 (null) = He's a small person on a power trip Who never cared He wasn't actually sick from bad Indian food Each time I felt we needed to talk H1 = He's not small but broken It was shame that caused him to disappear without warning; I memorialized every scene of his trauma While he forgot my middle name H2 = He's an emotionless sociopath in a decade-long grift Laughing about me with his friends Each month he adds some new mark to his collection One day he'll be caught and I'll guest star in a true crime documentary Yes, all very plausible Now all that's left to detect an effect is to dampen the noise
If your story had a sound, Slushies. What would it be? A rush, a zuzz, a sizzle? David Landon's “Bach, Onomatopoeia, and the Wreck” triggers a discussion of stories and sounds, and poems that resist narrative closure. Shane Chergosky's “Headwind” takes us down a different path. Erasures, Slushies. Ammi right? Listen to us puzzle over the way erasures “make it new” and simultaneously obliterate and conjure the from which they're made. Special note: Jason reads the erasure twice. First as a robot, then as a human. We love both versions-- of the poem, and Jason. And if you are hungry for more: take this and this and this. At the table: Marion Wrenn, Alex Tunney, Kathleen Volk Miller, Jason Schneiderman, Samantha Neugebauer, Larissa Morgano This episode is brought to you by one of our sponsors, Wilbur Records, who kindly introduced us to the artist A.M.Mills, whose song “Spaghetti with Loretta” now opens our show. David is never quite sure whether he is an actor who writes poetry or a poet who acts. And perhaps he can be forgiven his obsession with iambic pentameter: he has done a lifetime of Shakespeare, as an actor (New York, Nashville, and Alabama Festivals), director, and coach. His poetry—all iambic pentameter—has been published in Able Muse (Write Prize, winner), Georgia Review (Williams Prize, featured finalist), Southwest Review (Marr Prize, runner-up), the Dark House, Think Journal, and elsewhere. Officially, he is the Bishop Frank A. Juhan Professor of Theatre Emeritus at Sewanee, the University of the South. Bach, Onomatopoeia, and the Wreck For all we knew, it was a random chunk of interstellar rock, the rear-end crash that brought us to a halt. Dinner was out, of course, and the Bach too, I realized, feeling it in my neck, and standing there in the rain, examining my totaled car, the guilty driver soaked, in tears. The cops were nice enough, did what they had to do efficiently. The wrecker did show up, eventually, and we began to cope. And since it's now collision story time, the word I'm hearing in my head is ‘thud'. There's ‘clunk', of course, or ‘jolt', ‘wham-bang', or ‘thwack'. ‘Thwack' has that sudden, can't-be-happening feel, as in, “I was just sitting, reading Kant, when suddenly, inside my head, I felt this ‘thwack', and everything went blank.” But no! The word that truly bongs the knell is ‘thud', essence—onomatopoetically— of impact, ‘thud', from dice, to hand-grenade, to asteroid. We need the stupid ‘d' of ‘doo-doo', ‘dodo', 'dude', or ‘dud', or ‘dead'. ‘You're-done-for-d' is what we're up against; you never know when out of nowhere, ‘thud'! But on the other hand, there's Bach: the Bach we missed, the works for cello solo. Bach: initial ‘b', a kind of plosive bump, terminal ‘ch', a bit of friction in the throat, but in between the ‘b' and ‘ch', the ‘ah', release: sustained and open, ‘ah'. Think of the bow colliding with the string, a subtle thud, a scrape, and out floats Bach, genial Bach-analia of dark and light, a theory of the universe as music: bang, and then the sarabande, the minuet, the allemande, the gigue. Shane Chergosky was born in Minnesota where he was raised on stuffed cabbage and heavy metal. His work has appeared in Pithead Chapel, HASH Journal, Juke Joint, and is forthcoming in Adirondack Review. He holds an MFA from George Mason University and lives in Washington, D.C. Headwind ? When I think about the story she told me about that I don't even wanna hurt the guy. I don't know if I could meet that person and act normal. I remember I did that when I was about 20,21. I didn't go into CVS with Xunaxi to What a bastard I was . And // ith what courses I take.Luckily I can only take two (!!!). Maybe a lit course and…an elective? It'd be SO cool to do screen- writing. Finally would have a chance to write that SciFi…I ordered “The Art of Syntax” after Phebe brought it over. I honestly get so self-conscious talking with her about sentence-level stuff. She's so smart and her recall is so good (regardless of what she says re: her // I want to sleep in a crappy hotel and make jokes hold her after we kill a pint of ice cream. something feels right about her, about the way I feel around her. I want her attention. I want her to pay attention to me. She does! but I don't know it's different when you're with what I have a hard time with imagining her with her ex, though they're // I feel like fragments could be a part of my work/thesis. It'd be cool to take a finished poem of mine, print copies, and do some Christian Hawkey-type process with it/them. The 19th and 20th days had that feel to them because I tore a bit from the top of the page, forcing me to write around the tear. Now, if I had a finished poem, and shot it with a gun, or let an animal chew on I, or let a human chew on it even, the parts that survive //arrative time no time feeling of the trout throat closing odd breathing but accepting that I have limits I deserve to feel OK, to take a break I'm OK I'm doing everything // I'm afraid of telling her how strong my feelings are I think it wise to simply show her and not ask about sex for a few more months. She said we're dating and that makes me feel secure. // Canal a cane smoothed orchard backlogged beggar concrete daisy a conquest // not together I guess I'm having a hard time NOT imagining them together. How could he treat her that way? I mean no relationship is a cakewalk but like how could someone tell a woman they've been with for over a year that they'd rather keep driving and make it (home?) on time than stop for a tampon, to let the woman you supposedly love (did he even tell her?) that you'd rather her sit in her own blood, in discomfort and shame than do everything in your power to relieve her? to actually act? to perform an act of humanity? of care? concern // subcultural history. I feel like (and I'm probs stating the obvious) thagt the niches of already niche are erased by the dominant cultural narrative/ the narrative(s) that are hoisted up by capitalist/ supremacist ideals and/or organizations. I can't write organization without thinking about grant writing // I can, I'm doing a lot. Teaching is a lot. I'm going to apply for the fellowship. It's not that I don't want to teach, I just want time to focus on my work. I keep feeling its really getting somewhere. A chapbook at the least and a publishable one too! I want it. This semester is just wearing // Where only a portion of the whole survives. Then, I could make the other parts appear elsewhere? Maybe it's too on the nose but I've been thinking about the fragmented texts of the Anglo-Saxons (and probs other traditions) in association with incomplete narratives // raging satin page paginate vagina labia vulva intestinal contested protest regress transgress shake Shakespeare a knight made of feathers stuffed w/ feathers feathers on the doorstep rich lumber in heaps full pools of yellow beer getting warm in the kitchen the glow of the microwave the suran wrap melting on the still-cold lasagna, the color of waiting. Not even a color. Page page again wait know confound botch rip slap chirp girder serve elastic teeth cold // I'm so glad I'm not that way. Maybe I am and don't know it until it happens? Maybe thinking about Phebe's ex reminds me of that, that's why it makes me so disgusted and maybe it's good that I'm disgusted // to do. But you live and learn. I want to love again and make it right, or do it effectively, the way that makes us both feel whole or more whole/full than empty. I will get an A in grant writing. I will succeed. I know I'll get an extension and be able to make the internship // I want to make love to her real bad she d r ive s me crazy. She's sensual , and erotic, and really It was a terrible, immature thing // Intelligent ran runaways kept barking on. A sub miss ion hold putting entire cities into head -shirt void a void you can buy a void that becomes armor, a subculture, an agreed upon set of val u es in t elligent lights through a crispy gauze of hair swollen blue halo widening behind them like a wedding band. Overblown evening leather charms hanging on the door handle, on the bedpost. Literally thieves war paint corpse paint a mouth like a root system spreading, fragmenting branching diverging at both ends a worry squirrely ratchet odor smolder controller recover withdraw sheath hearth bust bent bruised lashed fixate lack lax creation Bonneville cruiser a loose ruining
How much meaning do you need, Slushies? When language lingers, when images form a spiral, a murmuration, might a poem's mood hold meaning close to its heart and simultaneously at bay? And, also, how do you pronounce ‘ichor'? All this and more in a rollicking conversation about poet Nick Visconti's new work, “Burial” and “Unmake These Things.” And speaking of things, listen for Samantha on Anne Carson's zen koan dollop of insight from Red Doc>: “To live past the end of your myth is a perilous thing.” Or for Kathy and Marion confessing their North Carolina ritual groping of the Dale Earnhardt statue in Kannapolis, NC. And finally: geese. Nick Visconti's poem triggered a reverie-- that time when we accidentally stumbled into the annual Snow Geese migration in Eastern Pennsylvania. At the table: Dagne Forrest, Kathleen Volk Miller, Alex Tunney, Samantha Neugebauer, Marion Wrenn. This episode is brought to you by our sponsor Wilbur Records, who kindly introduced us to the artist is A.M.Mills whose song “Spaghetti with Loretta” now opens our show. Nick Visconti is a writer living with an artist and a cat in Brooklyn. He plays softball on Sundays. Burial It is love, not grief, which inters the deceased in a hill made of clay. Sod embraces crossed arms, legs, eyes shut looking forever at nothing beneath our feet—a container for men unmade, no boat to speak of. No oars darkly dipped in water as we pictured it would be. Instead, a single shred of light piercing every lens it catches. Instead, a pathway none cross, just follow through and up and up—the cusp of ending, nothing at all like the end. He isn't in this yard when his children roam. Still, they dig, they expect to find him: braided leather, steel-wound aglets, his black opal intact. Unmake these things The sand before me like water, fluid and holy under the cratered crown nearly half-awake, circling as I draw the one way I know—stick figures in a backdrop scenery, thick- headed and content, wheeling psalms of birds, wide-sloping M's grouped in permanent murmur. I don't bother with the sun's face, bare in the upper left corner of the page. I've made a habit out of hoarding ornaments, given them their own orbit like the russet ichor dashed with cinnamon I choke down every morning and afternoon. The city's puncture-prone underbite nips the sky, consuming the bodies above—thunderheads, billboards notched, alive in the glow of that always- diurnal square. There's been talk lately of irreversible chemistry, an acceptable stand-in for cure among believers and experts in and on the subject of Zoloft-sponsored serotonin. A first weaning is possible. Do not bother with a second.
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It's hot out and to cool off, Monét shares her childhood memories of blue raspberries sorbet and Bunny remembers moonshine slushies. Monét back on TV on Super Secret Celebrity Drag Race. Mar-a-Lago is raided and the right is suddenly distrustful of the FBI in the lead up to a possible Trump presidential run announcement. They break down some of the accomplishments from the Biden administration. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
Find out what happened when Mark gave his wife (John's mom) a shopping cart for her birthday years ago! Plus John visits with comedian Chris Roach, formerly of the hit Kevin James sitcom “Kevin Can Wait,” at Governor's at the Brokerage Comedy Club during one of his stand-up sets. The guys talk about John's weekly dance party and remind everyone that they still go live on Facebook weekly for The Spreading Happiness Show on video! It's different that the podcast but still the same 2 guys you've (hopefully) grown to love. Hear about Mark fighting “satanic” cookies. Plus the usual standbys including John's love life, fitness journey, good news and bad jokes! Business to highlight: Smile Biscotti: https://www.smilebiscotti.com SMILE Biscotti is an entrepreneurial bakery business founded by Matt Resnik, following his graduation from high school in 2013. SMILE stands for Supporting My Independent Living Enterprise, and was created to help Matt and others like him, who are impacted by autism, make advancements in life skills development, social connections and pathways toward greater independence. Finding John's Crazy Socks: https://johnscrazysocks.com/ Hosted by John & Mark Cronin, co-founders of John's Crazy Socks. Visit John's Crazy Socks here: https://johnscrazysocks.com Follow @johnscrazysocks on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and TikTok. The Spreading Happiness Podcast is produced by Launchpad 516 Studios. For show ideas, guest inquiries, general feedback, sponsorships and media inquiries, drop an email: thespreadinghapinesspodcast@lp516.com Information about Speaking Engagements with John and Mark: https://johnscrazysocks.com/pages/speaking-engagements-1 Subscribe to The Spreading Happiness Podcast on Apple Podcasts and get notified of new episodes, every Tuesday! https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-spreading-happiness-podcast/id1611218712
If you can dream it, you can slush it. Slushies, novelty insect costumes and a T-Rex encounter, all for you in this week's episode. Andy and Jane present Oxventure live show Tome Sweet Tome, originally recorded live at EGX 2021. With thanks to this week's sponsor, D&D in a Castle. Visit dndinacastle.com for your vacation beyond imagination! To watch the video version of this Oxventure D&D episode: youtu.be/4hywFvz0uqI Get tickets to BAFTA's gaming open day, including a miniature live Oxventure D&D session: events.bafta.org We'll be doing a live Oxventure D&D show at EGX in London, September 2022! Tickets here: www.egx.net To join the new OX Supporters Club and our first official Discord server: patreon.com/oxclub Check out the official Outside Xbox and Outside Xtra store for sweet merch: store.outsidexbox.com To watch all the original Oxventure Dungeons & Dragons videos, visit us on YouTube at youtube.com/outsidexbox and youtube.com/outsidextra. And thank goodness for Johnny Chiodini, Oxventure Dungeon Master and Literally Everyone Else in the World.
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