A Morning Alone

I've been neglecting the blog. There is no lack of desire, simply a lack of time.

I have to pass my fourth semester of French in the spring, so I'm sitting in on the third-semester French class to review something I haven't thought about in 25 years. The memory of how to speak that language is buried under so many layers of life. Pulling it up from the bottom of that well is taking a bit of effort. Reading French is going well, but trying to compose a sentence... It's a lot like my poetry writing, painfully slow.

Creekside, everything is as it's always been: in a constant state of change. The August floods rewrote the banks. Giant tree snags unanchored briefly to sail downstream. The duckweed is regenerating. My thoughts are turning towards fire, socks, and burning leaves.

Weather Permitting

Astride a jagged black gash,
a gerrymandered line, women vice
in wielding eraser thighs.

Screw the context. The weather bites
fine. Flay pumpkinseed. Dust
cornmeal. Cast your net
on the other side.

Consensus

Facility of Mind

Haystack Dinner

My family and I are heading out to Middlebury tonight for an Amish haystack dinner and auction, an annual fundraising event I can't bear to miss. A couple of years ago I bought a rain barrel out there for $5! In my eyes, it's a writer's dream (including a very cheap meal - donation only.) If anyone is interested in going with us, send me an e-mail today. We'd love to have you come.

Stamping of Hooves

Talia is stamping her foot, waiting for a report. What went on out in the field? Wait, wait. That's another story. Where was I? Did someone say something? What went on inside the Bucket? Or outside the Bucket? Really, there is not much to say. We are continuing our quest to take over the world. From the outside. It will either be an insurrection or a resurrection. There were eight of us. We are all sworn to secrecy. A few books were exchanged. The pedigree of the white stallion has been established. We have an outpost on the moon. Margie lives there, with her bastard son who doesn't wear shoes. We all wore black, either for obscurity of mourning. No one was sure. There was some talk of late payments, some talk of dreams. Prostitution on the railroad tracks is not a pretty thing. I would have taken pictures, but that would be absurd.

Dr. Juma

Jesus and Gloria sent me this pick in July. I couldn't bring myself to throw it away. Click on the pic and all will become larger than life... If you haven't run off post haste to Dr. Juma, I expect to see you at the writers' thing.

Oaken Bucket Writers' Get-Together!

Yes, we're still on, so get your hineys over there. We're meeting at 7:00 at the Bucket, outside in the ungodly heat, with the bugs, all that stuff. There are pending publications to celebrate, promotions, lots of reasons to come together and be.

Summer's Gone

I am different than the girl you knew
two years ago, one year ago, six months ago...

New poetry books are on their way.
Liam Rector, Charles Simic, and Michael Dumanis.
Yes, I intend on sharing.
Poetry? Who knew?

The last wedding dog was hung on Saturday. The groom, twitching, dropped the ring, which rolled down the aisle to rest at the feet of the bride’s father. Later, the groom’s face refused to find a suitable position to kiss the bride. The bride finally grabbed him, held his face firmly, and took matters into her own lips. Good.

The kids are both back in school. Tom left for WMU last night, forgetting half of his important belongings, including his tennis shoes. He did all his own moving, packing… Yes, Jesus, I’m not exactly cutting the apron strings, just untying the knots. It seems apparent he’ll be back, again and again.

Gene has run off to Chicago for a couple of days, working on his first solo assignment for his new job.

And that’s the news.

Summer’s gone.

Cow Aid

I almost forgot - forgive me, cows - I promised my cousin Jennifer I would pass this plea around. Two cows in Chicago are looking for a home with a sympathetic vegetarian farmer type that will not turn them into food. They are currently located at a petting zoo outside of Chicago. Their names are Snowball and Coco. If you know of anyone...