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HUMMER STOLEN FROM BOISE DEALERSHIP FOUND IN BLISS

Longtime readers know that UD often wonders what it’s like for foreigners – even those who speak and read very good English – to come across certain obscure bits of our language. This headline, for instance…

Margaret Soltan, April 24, 2017 1:31PM
Posted in: headline of the day

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6 Responses to “HUMMER STOLEN FROM BOISE DEALERSHIP FOUND IN BLISS”

  1. Greg Says:

    Saint Teresa in Ecstasy
    Hummer in Bliss*

    Bernini missed a real chance in the Coronado Chapel.

    *By the way, the article puts bliss [Idaho] in all lowercase, especially inviting a foreign speaker’s confusion. One of the oldest form of humor: confusion of proper nouns with other parts of speech.

  2. Greg Says:

    Oops Spellcheck metamorphosed Cornaro.

  3. Alan Allport Says:

    “Man charged with flashing genitals in Intercourse library.”

    http://www.pennlive.com/news/2017/02/man_charged_with_flashing_geni.html

  4. Greg Says:

    You’re rembering this little ditty from the life of Ralph Ginzburg, editor of Eros Magazine and sanctioned for his postmark rather than the contents of the package:

    “The defendants sought mailing privileges from the postmasters of Intercourse and Blue Ball, Pennsylvania,[8] before settling upon Middlesex, New Jersey, as a mailing point.”

    Source Wikipedia, Ralph Ginsburg

    But give me, instead, the best of Allen any more
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    A Supermarket in California
    Allen Ginsberg, 1926 – 1997

    What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
    In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
    What peaches and whatYou’re rembering this little ditty from the life of Ralph Ginzburg, editor of Eros Magazine and sanctioned for his postmark rather than the content:

    “The defendants sought mailing privileges from the postmasters of Intercourse and Blue Ball, Pennsylvania,[8] before settling upon Middlesex, New Jersey, as a mailing point.”

    Source Wikipedia, Ralph Ginsburg

    But give me, instead, the best of Allen any day:
    audio
    facebook
    twitter
    tumblr
    embed poem
    add to anthology
    print
    A Supermarket in California
    Allen Ginsberg, 1926 – 1997

    What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
    In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
    What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!—and you, García Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

    I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
    I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
    I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
    We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

    Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in a hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
    (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.)
    Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we’ll both be lonely.
    Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
    Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?
    —Berkeley, 1955
    penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!—and you, García Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

    I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
    I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
    I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
    We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

    Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in a hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
    (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.)
    Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we’ll both be lonely.
    Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
    Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

  5. Greg Says:

    Great apologies: poem repeated by accident.

  6. Margaret Soltan Says:

    Alan: LOL. Great one.

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