I've been away from this blog for a while now, mostly due to a drive to finish a few poems ahead of the Monsters reading last week in Madison and an overload of recent stimuli from out in the real world--notably the trip itself, which found me in a full-bloom Wisconsin spring (weeks ahead of us in northern Vermont) among friends and loved ones, while also finally getting into some of the deep waters of crazy Ahab chapters in Moby-Dick, picking up a fabulous novel (Learning to Pray in the Age of Technique) by the young Portugese luminary Goncalo Tavares, listening to Sharon Van Etten's new album Tramp, and absolutely obsessing over David Milch's latest accomplishment, the HBO series Luck, which was prematurely canceled due to tragic misfortune.

Sometime this week I hope to gather my thoughts and post something about Milch's Luck. Not a review, so much as a few thoughts on, among other things, the way its portrayal of horses is beautiful and moving and reminds me of the terribly gentle encounter the Pequod's killers have with the calm center of a pod of whales in "The Grand Armada" chapter. 

In case you haven't seen Luck or think a series only 9 episodes long, whose entire cast and crew only learned of its cancellation after completing the penultimate episode, can't achieve something artistically important, please do yourself the pleasure of watching it. I spent last weekend doing not much else and feel richly rewarded for it. Seriously.