Skip to main content


Showing posts from February, 2015

Portrait of An Impulsive Post I Don't Know What to Title

Pictured is The Hon. Frances Buncombe by Thomas Gainsborough . . . . . I normally don't appreciate this 18th century style of portraiture, but in pricing books this morning, listening to Real Estate's latest record Atlas, I came across an Oxford Univ. Press copy of Fanny Burney's Cecilia and, struck unexpectedly by the radiant beauty of this lovely young woman on the book's front cover, flipped the book over to find the cover illustration credits (does anybody else here ever do that?; i.e., are you a geek or geekette too?) and just felt the spontaneous need to share her. Saint Valentine still floating amourously in the air out there, maybe?

Heavy Daughter Blues: Poems & Stories 1968-1986 by Wanda Coleman

Wanda Coleman didn't live long enough to win Los Angeles' official poet laureate post first inaugurated by then-mayor Antonio Villaraigosa in 2012 -- she died in 2013 -- but to fans, her de facto advocates; and, I'd argue, to her haters also (how dare Wanda malign and/or mock their sacred bovines, Maya Angelou and MLK!), it was obvious she had long been Los Angeles' unofficial poet laureate, and it was obvious whether or not she was ever officially recognized (or officially snubbed) by any mayor or other elected dumb ass.  She'll always be the reigning Poet Period ... of Watts.

Wanda Coleman's poetry was too dangerous, too daring, for a self-aggrandizing straight-laced politician to probably understand let alone endorse; too lunatic fringed for them; too edgy; too in-their-smarmy-fucking-faces; too strange; too estranged; too deranged; too ENRAGED; too I-don't-give-a-fuck-what-you-think-Assholes-how-I-relate-my-colloquial-street-slang-on-the-page-about-a-so…