* On Eagleton *

I swear Terry Eagleton will never be gone from my life. Just when I thought I was free of him, I was in a book store and jumping at me was Marxist Literary Theory. How could I not pick it up. Even better, how can a book on Marxism be $39.95? What about us common people? I leave you this to think about:


"[A]ny Marxist criticism worth the name must thus adopt a wellnigh impossible double optic; seeking on the one hand to take the full pressure of a cultural artefact while striving at the same time to displace it into its enabling material conditions and set it within a complex field of social power. What this means in effect is that one will find oneself bending the stick too far towards formalism and then too far towards contextualism, in search of that ever-receding discourse which would in allegorical manner speak simultaneously of an artistic device and a whole material history, of a turn of narrative and a style of social consciousness."

-- Terry Eagleton, "Introduction" to Marxist Literary Theory (1996)

* a redo of sorts *

grrrrrr!!! What am I doing?

* One Line *

ROSALIE PAVLOVNA: Comrades and Messieurs! Please eat! Where would you find pigs like these nowadays? I bought this ham three years ago in case of a war with Greece or Poland. . . . But there's still no war and the ham is getting moldy. . . . Eat, gentlemen!

-The Bedbug by: Mayakovsky

How smart! I love this!

* new TITLE *

*ACT ONE::PosterTHREE*

In two days it will be a month since my mothers passing. I am just started to get back to work. It's been really hard to get back into the swing of things!

I think this still needs some worrk but I have to step away from it for a while! Click for a larger view!!

* If I could talk to Mayakovsky, I would say.....*

Talking to Vladimir Mayakovsky

All right, I admit it:
It was just a dream I had last night.
I was trudging along a muddy path
in a column of downcast men
on the blackened outskirts of New York,
the twilight dingy and ruined,
the future without hope
as we marched along
in our soiled, proletariat rags.
To my left was Mayakovsky, head shaved,
and next to him his friend
with gray beard and dark cap.
You've got to admit," Mayakovsky
was saying, "that this is a pretty good
way to write a poem."
"Yes," I said, "the momentum
is sustained by our walking forward,
the desolate landscape seeps into every word,
and you're free to say anything you want."
"That's because we're inside the poem,"
he said, "not outside." Puddles
of oily water gleamed dully beneath the low clouds.
"That's why my poems were so big:
there's more room inside."
The hard line of his jaw flexed and
the men dispersed. I followed
his friend behind a wall
to hear the poem go on
in the lecture the friend was giving on history,
but no, the real poem had finished.
I went back to the spot
where the poem had finished.
Vladimir had left the poem.


By:RON PADGETT