The title of this entry was suggested as an alternate title for a poem I recently wrote, I Love You With All of my Hard-On. Yeah, I wish I would have thought of it first. But I didn’t.

So who says I can’t use it anyway? For example as a title to a blog entry? Huh?

You may have noticed that I was MIA yesterday. And callers will have noticed I’ve been MIA quite a bit as of late. Hey, it happens. Life has thrown me a lot of curves this past year–some of with which many of you are familiar. And then there’s the stuff I just keep to myself. Regardless, sometimes I just reach burn-out stage and/or am coping with some life trauma. Then I have to step back from the phones, and, even sometimes, this blog.

Some news:

I’ve been bombarded with poetry in re. to my new category, PSOetry. Poetry of all kinds and by so many different poets. I do believe I’m learning more than I ever learned in my college poetry courses. At least it’s a much fuller experience.

I will be judging a writing competition for Tit-Elation in the very near future. We are working out the details, so stay tuned for more on that soon.

I am finally working on Literate Smut‘s updates and changes and we should actually see that all in place by the end of next week if not sooner.

And last –but certainly not ever, ever least– my most awesome Deviant Savant, Supervert, has made me the official Phone Sex Operator of his most wonderful site, PervScan.

And now if you will excuse me, I’m off to other endeavors for this evening.

As I’ve said –ad nauseum, perhaps?– I am a serious fan of SuperVert of PervScan.com and Perscan.tv. And we haven’t visited for a while, have we?

So why don’t we take a stroll. For your reading pleasure:

• Breaking, Entering, and Wanking
• Strip Tease Funerals (and why not?)
• Ancient Chinese Secret
• Breakfast of Champions
• Cyber Slave Driver
• Best. Phone. Sex. Ever. (hmph!)
• Prostitutes Rated Online
• Hemingway’s Son – Or Daughter?
• Ass Obsessed
• Flashing the Amish (praise the lord)
• Baby Man

And you just have to check out SuperVert’s mailbag. He does, indeed, get letters.

Truth is stranger than fiction, don’t ya know? Just ask SuperVert. He knows.
xo, Angela

Names of Horses ~ Donald Hall

All winter your brute shoulders strained against collars, padding
and steerhide over the ash hames, to haul
sledges of cordwood for drying through spring and summer,
for the Glenwood stove next winter, and for the simmering range.

In April you pulled cartloads of manure to spread on the fields,
dark manure of Holsteins, and knobs of your own clustered with oats.
All summer you mowed the grass in meadow and hayfield, the mowing machine
clacketing beside you, while the sun walked high in the morning;

and after noon’s heat, you pulled a clawed rake through the same acres,
gathering stacks, and dragged the wagon from stack to stack,
and the built hayrack back, uphill to the chaffy barn,
three loads of hay a day from standing grass in the morning.

Sundays you trotted the two miles to church with the light load
a leather quartertop buggy, and grazed in the sound of hymns.
Generation on generation, your neck rubbed the windowsill
of the stall, smoothing the wood as the sea smooths glass.

When you were old and lame, when your shoulders hurt bending to graze,
one October the man, who fed you and kept you, and harnessed you every morning,
led you through corn stubble to sandy ground above Eagle Pond,
and dug a hole beside you where you stood shuddering in your skin,

and lay the shotgun’s muzzle in the boneless hollow behind your ear,
and fired the slug into your brain, and felled you into your grave,
shoveling sand to cover you, setting goldenrod upright above you,
where by next summer a dent in the ground made your monument.

For a hundred and fifty years, in the Pasture of dead horses,
roots of pine trees pushed through the pale curves of your ribs,
yellow blossoms flourished above you in autumn, and in winter
frost heaved your bones in the ground – old toilers, soil makers:

O Roger, Mackerel, Riley, Ned, Nellie, Chester, Lady Ghost.

***

This poem is one I was “forced” to study in a college poetry course, then proceeded to never forget. Even reading it again just now, I am still overcome by myriad emotional reactions to the sacred-ness, the eternal-ness of all that is right and true that is spoken to, celebrated here. Anybody care to add to this? Please feel free.

I would link you to the site where I found the poem, but it contained pop-ups and I don’t want to subject you to that.

Here is more on the poet, Mr. Hall, which was a fun read for me, as my professor had never forced the issue and so I’d never delved deeper.

xo, Angela