tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19926964902238459152018-07-30T04:37:16.689-04:00humorous philosophic musings on love and other dangerous indulgences..Samuel Saint Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06497860898499154899noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1992696490223845915.post-19051549127108713152010-02-14T13:41:00.007-05:002010-02-14T14:21:11.119-05:00

she and he @3 in the morningby samuel saint thomasit merely is a ray said she..it looks to me hot sun said he.. it simply is a ball said she..it looks to me full moon said he.. it only is a yellow hue said she..it is to me carats gold said he.. it feels a shard of glass said she..it cuts as if a diamond said he.. it seems perfume is spilled said she..it grows a garden flower said he.. it is of

Samuel Saint Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06497860898499154899noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1992696490223845915.post-39360695123389734772009-05-04T01:16:00.009-04:002009-05-13T19:37:32.919-04:00

By Samuel Saint Thomas. It’s raining. I’m mousing Google wasteland for bliss. Perhaps there’s some hope loitering in the nothingness. Click. Sephora offers the lovely Bliss brand in various existential flavours. Fatgirlslim, sandpaper in a tube to wipe away clingy pudge. $29.00 thanks. For the Brazilian pubic waxers, there’s a 50 pack of Bliss Ingrown Eliminating Pads, an ingrown hair lump and

Samuel Saint Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06497860898499154899noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1992696490223845915.post-43424521035485539172009-03-07T02:41:00.003-05:002009-05-13T19:38:07.468-04:00

by Samuel Saint ThomasI can't believe I'm still learning how to see. I figure if I learn to do that, I can write. I'm not talking about eyesight. More correctly, I'm talking about learning to look. I see too much. I want to look, as Martin Heidegger suggests, so as to allow for a clearing, as if to licht or light up a thing or thought. That way i'll get a chance to examine it apart from the rest

Samuel Saint Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06497860898499154899noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1992696490223845915.post-18190521790097766352009-03-04T21:28:00.023-05:002009-05-13T19:38:53.158-04:00

by Samuel Saint Thomas. At 10:45 this morning, I was half an hour into it, on the exam table, pants off. She felt around on the left cheek of my ass, searching for the exact spot. She was sorry about the cold hands. “Ahh, Jeeezus, that’s it. Wow,” I said. “You’re pretty inflamed there on your buttocks,” she said.The doctor told me that some sort of sac in my ass cheek is the problem. Bursae

Samuel Saint Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06497860898499154899noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1992696490223845915.post-36321348399723802202009-01-10T21:03:00.011-05:002009-05-13T19:39:39.928-04:00

by Samuel Saint Thomas. Three times today I’ve tripped over the first step on the stairs. It sticks out in front of the bathroom door. My feet are too big for my house. Yet, I pride myself in it, having the smallest carbon footprint in the neighborhood at just over 900 square feet. No McManor here. I can reach everything in the kitchen in one step. I can see out the windows on all four sides of

Samuel Saint Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06497860898499154899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1992696490223845915.post-73002529096189196212008-12-16T13:47:00.012-05:002009-05-13T19:40:11.360-04:00

by Samuel Saint Thomas. Let's just say for some reason that you're lucky enough to get on my Santa list. You’re nice. You take your shoes off when you come to my house. You always and every single time refill my ice cube tray after making beverages. You pick the lint ever so gently from my sweater. And you don’t give a shit about much I do or say, not a denunciatory bone in your jaw.And you’re

Samuel Saint Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06497860898499154899noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1992696490223845915.post-76056802550903450122008-08-11T15:20:00.022-04:002009-05-13T19:43:33.937-04:00

by Samuel Saint Thomas. Walking down Commercial Street in Provincetown is an adventure in eccentricity. P-town is a magnet for all things unhomogenized. Paris and New York distilled. Its lust for deviation seems as much a footing as the sand that supports its tumbled wooden houses, galleries, night clubs, and lobster joints. It's simple to make out the face of the town, to describe the colors,

Samuel Saint Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06497860898499154899noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1992696490223845915.post-14098495624218306202008-07-17T21:22:00.008-04:002009-03-06T20:00:48.777-05:00

You'll forget what you're about to read here shortly. You won't give a hounds ass. I won't give a hounds ass either. You see, in writing my memoirs, I've been giving memory a thought. And it's pretty depressing. Because if sensory memory is only good for less than two seconds and short term memory 15 seconds, all one has left is long term memory. And that's not much. Few experiences, only

Samuel Saint Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06497860898499154899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1992696490223845915.post-52173518650394755622008-07-16T05:19:00.003-04:002009-03-06T20:01:19.639-05:00

engulfed in flames at 5:15 in the am.. the wine is not too bad either..XOsamuel

Samuel Saint Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06497860898499154899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1992696490223845915.post-57102631902855436662008-07-14T18:13:00.016-04:002009-03-06T20:01:39.645-05:00

Just the other day I received a release to publish my conversation with Chris Arthur titled " Scribbles, Fragments, and Ideas," that appeared in the early spring edition of The Literary Review. I count it as an honor to have appeared in a lit mag that has published the likes of some real heavyweights such as William Carlos Williams, Langston Hughes, Philip Levine, Seamus Heaney, and Rilke. Yikes!

Samuel Saint Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06497860898499154899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1992696490223845915.post-32676907363533200582008-07-13T23:17:00.017-04:002009-03-06T20:02:09.102-05:00

it's summer, people usually go places, but i haven't gone very far.. it seems the fine weather has lured me to the porch with my laptop.. i had to do it, to get a laptop that is.. i know that great writers hide in dark attics, but i couldn't pull it off.. the dark hole theory for prolific writing.. regardless, i've been making fresh-air progress on my "jesus boy" memoirs.. it would seem i'm at

Samuel Saint Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06497860898499154899noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1992696490223845915.post-39275118805536908942008-06-17T23:01:00.007-04:002009-03-06T20:02:52.460-05:00

Richie stopped by today. we drank hard cider. his day sucked. his kid ripped off Walmart. stole a video game. so Richie was running me through his punishment scheme. "he's 16 for fuck sake. i thought i taught him right," he said, "he can't work at the pool this summer, that's it, it's pulling weeds." Richie wanted to know if he was being overenthusiastic with all the punishment and such.i said, "

Samuel Saint Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06497860898499154899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1992696490223845915.post-53978370239434832262008-06-16T23:12:00.011-04:002009-03-06T20:03:17.334-05:00

a few minutes ago i finished up the speed review of Bonnaroo in the New York Times. i had a feeling I missed something, everything, and nothing all at once. i thought perhaps i'd have a beer, instead i checked my email.. nothing. not even a little late night spam.i'm not sure if Mr Pareles was even there. the voice in his Times review is distant. the voice of hands outstretched toward pounding

Samuel Saint Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06497860898499154899noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1992696490223845915.post-65377534076432742272008-06-04T20:36:00.012-04:002009-03-06T20:05:55.503-05:00

As I listened to the presumptuous Barack Obama deliver his "sermon" last night claiming his nomination, I realized one more time that I am not a fan. The word fan makes me think of moving air, cardboard on a stick, passed to the perspiring at funerals. The word fan makes me think of the word fanatic, synonymous with breezy words like maniac, extremist, diehard, and zealot. I'm far too much a

Samuel Saint Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06497860898499154899noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1992696490223845915.post-66921123239826036952008-06-03T21:23:00.007-04:002009-03-06T20:06:24.598-05:00

I have a rather mercurial affair with the idea of the blog. To begin with, I'm not much of a believer, and to blog, I have to believe. I have to believe in things unseen, namely people. I have to believe that subscribers are people, people with heartbeats. People with the fear of dying. People who are confused. People who are lonely. People who laugh, cry, argue, sing, dance, and on

Samuel Saint Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06497860898499154899noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1992696490223845915.post-30085098274149362022008-05-22T16:24:00.003-04:002009-05-13T19:00:32.976-04:00

I am thinking of Lou Reed just now, the Velvet Underground guy. He said," I think it's true what my wife said to me, she said 'Lou, Lou, Lou, it's the beginning of a great adventure.'" Lucky Lou, I say, to have a muse. But if his wife doesn't mind, I feel inclined to adopt that forecast for kicking jesus.A few years ago --before blogging was invented-- I wrote a weekly post for 52 weeks on

Samuel Saint Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06497860898499154899noreply@blogger.com0