My chapbook came out yesterday, and a problem with being an older debut poet is just hitting me.
Almost everyone I’d like to share the news with is long dead.
My parents, most of my teachers, all my mentors. The twentieth century has been dying for years; this week I feel freshly re-orphaned.
Obviously, this is not to diminish how great it’s been to share this news with all the people who ARE still here, but it’s all the more bittersweet because it makes me realize how many others have already gone…
Also… I may have a list of the dead, but I’ve lived long enough that there is also a list of the dead-to-me. This is bittersweet in a different way, but it also brings a grim satisfaction that I never have to deal with any of them ever again.
I’m only now beginning to feel slightly human again after losing a week to the most spectacular head cold I’ve had in years. Watching my immune system fight this cold was like watching someone try to build an intricate model airplane while being pelted with coins.
I’ve just learned the formidable Otoliths has ended its run after seventy issues.
Few lit mags have published such a dizzying variety of work while also maintaining such an unmistakable and singular vision. Its intrepid editor, Mark Young, is a wonder.
A poem of mine, “Four Lessons” has just appeared in the fabulous Guesthouse. Many thanks to Jane Huffman for including it among such excellent company.
“Four Lessons” is from my book, Vessels, which will be published next year by Unsolicited Press.
Fool. The reason why the seven stars
are no more than seven is a pretty reason. Lear. Because they are not eight? Fool. Yes indeed. Thou wouldst make a good fool.
What? A newsletter? Does the world really need another one of these?
Don’t worry! Mine is obscure, sporadic, and utterly vacuous! You will never feel any pressure to learn anything, be challenged in your beliefs, or even entertained. So go ahead! Subscribe here: “Three Things”
