Overhead, without any fuss, the stars were going out.

�� Arthur C. Clarke, "The Nine Billion Names of God" ��






My chapbook, The Language of Exile, is available from Main Street Rag. I like to trade chapbooks. I want yours. I want it now ....

ME ME ME
who the heck
write me now, ok

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2005-10-25, 11:15 a.m.:
We're watching 'Simpsons' reruns now, the two-year-old and I:

Marge (to Homer in burglar garb, about to steal a car): What's with all the black?

Homer: What's with the earrings? What's with the hair? What's with anything?

0 comments

2005-10-24, 3:52 p.m.:
Whoa, embarassment of riches. A second acceptance came in the mail - Kennesaw Review - this time wanting three of the four poems I sent them. I suppose this more than makes up for the two rejections I received on my birthday .... Unfortunately, Kennesaw also wanted "LIT" - so recently claimed by another. Such a good feeling. I was so excited, I could barely sit down for hours. Thus Att and Baby Ro and I did a bit more perambulating and nature-discovery in the yard. He played in the dirt and leaves for at least an hour. I stood around, reading snatches from a short story. Otherwise: migrainous. Otherwise: mildy wonderfully warm day. Otherwise: yeah, baby.

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2005-10-24, 10:32 a.m.:
I got a great acceptance today. "Lost in Translation" is going to be in the Fall 2005 issue of The New Hampshire Review. This is a publication I really like. And I realized today when I heard the word how important it was to me to place "LIT" in a journal. Because it's a sort of anchor poem in the chapbook. It appears second, after "Amsterdam," and always has. The order has never changed. It's always had its own place of honor reserved there.

Still wish I could be reading more, with more focus. The poetry books and journals are piling up, the paper. Though, funny: I have absolutely no attention span, yet have to be reading always. Found myself on our excursion into the yard with Att and the baby surreptitiously slipping the GRANTA past-issue catalogue out of my pocket and reading it while we rested for a few moments on the tree stumps, even while checking our land's perimeter with the boy, walking slowly through the brush and bushes. He's busy brandishing sticks he found in the fallen leaves, baby (in the Baby Bjorn) sucking away on his beloved paci (we call it a "b�che" at our house, and I believe the word is feminine: la b�che), I have my head lost in lovely GRANTA's of years past.

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2005-10-22, 1:36 p.m.:
I like

words like 'throw' or 'dollop' or 'clutch,' as in 'a clutch of eggs.' That Antwerp may mean 'hand throw' - something having to do with the time of legends. My hair right now, though dirty. Cadbury caramel-filled chocolate. Smoking and beer drinking. Hyphens and parentheses and litanies and the semi-colon. I like that Colin Powell is really Colon Powell.

I have an inexplicable love for

Avril Lavigne.

I am not so enraged at

other people writing so much poetry when I am also writing some myself.

I noticed

that the buzz from writing the bad poem is just as good as the buzz from writing the good. It's only the next day really that you can tell between them.

Do I think that all babies are cute?

Not all. Most.

Word of the week is

inexplicable. One of those words you like to use to excess and quite randomly.

0 comments

2005-10-21, 4:09 p.m.:
Asheville: In the half-dark hotel room, nursing the baby on the one queen-size, Attukai on the other, not-napping, smacking his lips LOUD to imitate the noisy eater baby

Since I came home from North Carolina: Craving kale. Loving babies and the idea of babies

The Harvest Moon slung low over the roof of the house off Highway 49 (view from the churchyard playground)

It�s cold here and it�s white and misty on the side of a mountain, the aspens� recent finery already just so much ground cover.

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2005-10-12, 9:43 a.m.:
I have a poem over at The Duplications today.

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2005-10-11, 7:00 p.m.:
The autumn, averted. There is a great muzzle over everything after this first, this early snow. The aspens in danger, the aspens bent over onto the garage roof, onto each other, because they can't bear two burdens at once: the weight of the snow, their half-turned leaves - last responsibility of the year. Peter out in the nearly silent dark last night, shaking the snow down, trying to save them, or at least some branches from each tree. Nothing but the muffled crunch of his boots, the cool sizzle of the powdery wet stuff dispersing, flung onto the snowground, some of it seeming to float for a moment in the air. I stood on the doorsill to the garage, smoking, watching him, glad not to have the cold crystal shower on my naked neck, down the back of my coat. I went inside before he finished.

Two big red foxes passing right under our living room window this morning, ruddier and somehow bigger seeming against white everywhere. They are so big, their tails as thick as a large man's thigh. Hurrying back to their warm place under the rocks.

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2005-10-11, 4:28 p.m.:
I want for it to go on and on. Much like a Victorian novel.

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