Thought of the day: I really like my own poetry. Not all of it all of the time, but a pretty good proportion of what I've written in the past continues to resonate. I wondered if this just made me really self-centered, but then figured that if I didn't like the stuff, then I'd really be in trouble. I'm writing mostly for my sake, anyway. That, and as an excuse to do handmade chapbooks.
Speaking of which, I'm thinking of expanding my production beyond my own work. "Hermosa Neutron" has really been the ultimate vanity press -- only publishing me. But I think I'd like to do books for others, too. Tiny runs of 20 or so. I really like the process of making the physical object of the book -- making sure every element -- font, paper, cover -- complements the poems inside.
Yet another Confederate has been dispatched. See how his confused spirit floats lazily in the currents above the battlefield?
Meantime, the Union soldier, safe alongside his trusty Easter Island totem, draws a bead on the spectators.
Okay, we all know that the internet has turned our collective ability to spell into goo. One slip of the key and you find that what you thought would be an elegant and informative post/email/etc has become a shining electronic testament to your position as a linguistic neanderthal.
But, there are some misspellings that seem like more than misspellings . . . it's like a whole new universe has opened up before us -- entirely new words are being manufactured from old meanings, bizarro orthographic dialetic materialism is in progress . . .
Two examples from today:
"It's a synch" (for "it's a cinch.")
"smart ellick" (for "smart aleck.")
What miraculous new spellings have you come across in your journeys about the web? And are they really that new? (After all, my Webster's Dictionary just informed me that "stingaree" is an acceptable alternate spelling of "stingray." Like hell it is.)
Your army swills down the country lanes,
and toward mi pobre hacienda, its
battered lack of oranges. Each soldier is
infected with time: the rising night feels
like an insect walking on their skin. Once,
I might have invited them to cool
their tortured nerves in the river's syrup,
listen to the birds' hunger songs, a music
of spirals. But today, I receive no visitors.
I am reading up on horticulture and boats.
I am making a plan of attack.
Tony the Pony is Mark's mom's new horse. He is not a pony, but when you name a horse "Tony," you invite the rhyme. Tony's favorite thing in the world is eating grass. Mark and I attempted in vain to get him to do something else (like trot around a paddock) this weekend. However, his placid, gluttonly demeanor has one advantage: he holds still for pictures.
Here is Tony from a distance, waiting by his paddock gate. Perhaps we have carrots, hmm?
Here is Tony closer up, engaged in his favorite pastime of cropping the turf.
And here he is very close. Note how totally bored he is with the camera thing. Must . . . eat . . . more . . . grass . . .
but what I really want to do is go home, knit, and watch House.