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This year it stands for National Poetry Writing Month. I don't have a quick novel in me this year but I do have a poem a day, although Zacks says every day is PoWri day, yoyo. Yesterday I was rapturous at spotting a raptor (they have two foveas, that's why an eagle is "eagle-eyed") and today we saw Birdman. I'm puzzled by it, especially the decision to give us 2 hours of drum solo, and wonder why a man with telekinetic powers can't snap his finger at the door that's locked behind him & get back in without having to bustle through Times Square in his tighty whities. I didn't buy theTimes critic at all—not only do I not think she would tell a director or playwright in advance that she was going to close his show, but I think the (presumed) gimmick would make her less not more likely to give it a rave. It was fun seeing Birdman (Michael Keaton) fly & fun seeing things explode. I can only admire the bold risk of dropping special effects into a Raymond Carver play (within a play).
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