Snowflakes.

It's a Malcolm Holcombe kind of Tuesday.

Every year at this time, I say it: I've had a lot of fantasies, but none of them were about football.

Taking Rebecca to something called Hillbilly Happy Hour for our anniversary. So, yes, I guess you could call me a romantic.

Rubber chickens and rubber ducks squeak the same language.

Contemplating the never-ending poetry manuscript.

Book cover of the day.

I thought the idea was to get criminals OFF the streets of DC.

TL;DL (too long; didn't listen)

Anybody with all the answers hasn't asked enough questions.

Maybe he'll even offer them candy.

Somebody misunderstood the Village People song "Macho Man."

They all look like they weren't hugged as children.

An old joke: "Joining MENSA is the dumbest thing I've ever done."

The stable genius strikes again.

I tried to get a job driving one of those Brinks money trucks. The interview was going great until the lady asked where I saw myself in five years and like some kind of idiot, I told her the truth. I said on the sandy beaches of a remote island paradise.

What a coincidence. They think we're stupid.

How many more celebrity deaths will Trump have to arrange before the nation forgets about Epstein?

Trump is a dumb person's idea of a successful person. He's not even a dumb person's idea of a smart person.

I always preferred Zeppelin to Sabbath, but there was never any denying the power of Ozzy's voice. He and Plant sang me through my early teen years.

Lawsuits are his love language.

Theo Von isn't exactly Mike Wallace. He's not even Anderson Cooper.

You can tell these manosphere dudes are dumb because the obvious choice is himisphere.

This isn't a tunnel. That isn't a light. Keep going anyway.

Kurt Vonnegut Museum and Library just accepted a poem of mine for the next edition of their literary annual, So It Goes.

Book of the day.

Another new poem.

Surruralism

Joe Ely-ing away the day.

Reading new poems at Dream Palace Books & Coffee.

Frank Stanford

New poem.

Two Poems by Brian Beatty oneartpoetry.com/2025/05/12/t...

An old joke of mine: "I sleep naked. Which wouldn't be a big deal, except I suffer from narcolepsy. I say 'suffer.' It's really not that bad. For me."

Poems forthcoming in Appalachian Journal, Freshwater Review, ONE ART and Stone Poetry Quarterly. That's a better use of my time than reacting to politics.

Say what you want about Trump, but there's no shortage of stock photos of him looking dumb and/or deranged for the online media to use as clickbait.

Another poem forthcoming in Appalachian Journal. This will be my third appearance in their pages.

Hurley returns to where he got his start.

It's an NRBQ kind of night. "Don't raise questions about how it's done. We're just messing 'round, having fun."

He can "go fuck himself."

A wonderful tribute to a brilliant musical one-off.

Good.

That didn't take long.

Too bad, so sad.

The ultra rich who live without consequence are the ones I hate.