Lol, Monty Python and Mad Magazine - my disformative years.
cue michaele jordana and the poles "cn tower" * , i been wondering out loud about that 900 miles an hour all my life and the gravity of the question is what keeps me in the dark and continuing to ask, wtf?.
roughly 1,000 miles per hour The earth rotates once every 23 hours, 56 minutes and 4.09053 seconds, called the sidereal period, and its circumference is roughly 40,075 kilometers. Thus, the surface of the earth at the equator moves at a speed of 460 meters per second--or roughly 1,000 miles per hour.Oct 26, 1998
How fast is the earth moving? - Scientific American
*this needs some explanation even for me i always thought and misheard the lyric which i have been also saying out loud all my life whenever spinning on this orb comes up was "the world is turning and i gotta get down from the cn tower cn tower" but it is really "whirling turning" doesn't really change the meaning for me or misquoting it in Leonard's future
that is very good poetry thanks, kinda Cohenish No wonder it's so dizzy so hard to keep standing on this so little ol' landing where it's all so busy no wonder i'm so dizzy so much of the time
2 things come to mind
cut back on librarian duties i don't know how u can be so prolific without losing a few HRSI tiles
and, lately; i rediscovered sitting in the woods in the evening before or after dinner listening hard for silence or critters beer and a smoke of course tunes the channel to minimize static
Enough poetry for one night!, oh yeah ;): Spring starts when a heartbeat's pounding When the birds can be heard above the reckoning carts doing some final accounting Lava flowing in Superfarmer's direction He's been getting reprieve from the heat in the frozen food section, yeah
Don't tell me what the poets are doing Don't tell me that they're talking tough Don't tell me that they're anti-social Somehow not anti-social enough, that's right
And porn speaks to it's splintered legions To the pink amid the withered cornstalks in them winter regions, yeah While aiming at the archetypal father He said with such broad and tentative swipes why do you even bother? Yeah
Don't tell me what the poets are doing Those Himalayas of the mind Don't tell me what the poet's been doing In the long grasses over time
Don't tell me what the poets are doing On the street and the epitome of vague Don't tell me how the universe is altered When you find out how he gets paid, alright
If there's nothing more that you need now The lawn cut by bare breasted women Beach bleached towels within reach for the women Got to make it, that'll make it by swimming
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