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Just in time for Valentine's Day,
the Guardian in London has
reviewed and raved about
The Secret Language of Sleep.
And, for the rest of the week,
you can buy it for $5!
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Reverie.BY MICHAEL QUATTRONE
The Formalists are here in tar-black neckwear; the Freebies, the Ranters, the Contemplators gather in the wet bar for Absinthe and Apollinaire. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow: three days of lectures at which to network. If I could watch it from home on a network, I would. Now there's a terrific invention— The Poetry Channel: "The Versed of Tomorrow Today!" An exposé on Elizabethan neckwear, and Who Wants to Marry Apollinaire? Not much of a market, from what I gather. Usually I come to these meetings together with my poetry patron, whose net worth exceeds that of your average millionaire, but she just married Jesus in a convent on the outskirts of Mamaroneck. Where that is, who the hell knows? Ask me tomorrow and I'll probably say, "Ask me tomorrow." Maybe I should go to Mamaroneck to get her, but nuns are such creatures of habit: that neckwear, those habits. It's a whole religious network, I swear. They probably go to Christ conventions, and I bet you can watch them appall on the air. I'd like to see CNN take a poll on air to end the suspense, or at least to narrow it down: who throws a better convention, nuns or poets? If not, we could gather our own data to post on the Net, work out a contest (or some kind of picnic) where nuns and poets would neck, wear each other's clothing, pray to Apollo, Nair each other's genitals. Stockings (fishnet) work well for me, too. I know—let's do it tomorrow! That way my patron won't think I forgot her. All Holy Sisters in the convent: shun your vows to marry Christ (né Queer)! All Horny Goatherds to Apollo: ne'er fear! This is Divine Intervention at work!
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