I smell like wet wool and want to each chocolate all day for the rest of my life.
What am I?
I love his gentle look of idiocy. The kind-of-Halloweeny clouds and tension of the past two evenings finally broke into rain sometime in the middle of the night. Ernesto will dump moisture all over the DC area this weekend, thus resigning me to my fate of working over the holiday. What we do for billables.
My dreams last night involved a cast of thousands. It was not unlike Andrei Belyi's "Petersburg," except it was set in NYC. A note to the cast:
* The state of the fried chicken is not a national tragedy.
* You really can't keep leading your friends in "the back way" into hotels so you can cry over the death scenes of long defunct rock stars.
* You can't ride a thoroughbred at breakneck speed through SoHo and not expect to get in trouble. You also can't just tie it to a lamppost in front of the Four-Faced Liar and expect that to be okay.
* You shouldn't abandon me to sit with Ma and Pa Redneck and their Bluegrass Brood just 'cause I don't want to sit backwards on the Amtrak train.
Mark's new mouse is camera-shy in her plastic tube, which is her refuge from everything scary, which is . . . everything.
Here she is. We didn't get around to naming her, so she is still just "Miss Mouse," or "Lucky."
In the meantime, Clarence is nearly a year old. When I bought him last October, he was completely black. For unknown reasons, he has turned orange.
Watch out in the next couple of weeks for Tinysides 11-15: Where The Boys Are, which will feature work by Zachary Schomburg, Noah Eli Gordon, Nate Pritts, Chris Pusateri, and Brett Evans.
Who wants to step up and be lucky customer 50? Come on...
Started printing covers for 16-20 tonight. The lineup for 21-25 is almost complete. Also an exciting chapbook project underway.
Still writing sailor poems, although the sailor isn't always there . . . he sometimes bows out in order to give the stage to an unanchored "you" or a heavenly body . . .
I think I'm going to read meat poems at my NYC reading in a couple of weeks. Meat!
I am reading Swann's Way, and it is fun because (a) it makes me feel smart (look at me, I'm reading Proust), (b) it is not a federal administrative agency opinion (what is this emotion of . . . interest . . . that I'm feeling?) and (c) it is very long, so it's unlikely to end soon.
Huzzah for the god of small favors, y'all.
Reading other people's manuscripts, thinking about my poetics (if any) and how to break certain habits in my writing. I suppose we all do things that are too easy, almost formulaic. It can be hard to push a poem hard to the end, instead of starting strong and then ducking through the lazy way.
My massive Applies to Oranges revision approacheth. In the meantime, more downtime candy-poems: sailors, zombies, missionaries caught in stew pots.