Before I forget

I promised Mike I'd post an old pic from our Bennington days (circa January 2000, I believe, taken by P.F. Potvin). This was before he became a metrosexual and got that dreamy haircut and calves.

Thank You

Thank you to all those who wrote inquiring about my grandmother, especially Laura who called last night. I know I kind of left things hanging on the blog a couple weeks ago by saying they were taking her off life support. As you probably guessed she passed away (June 17). One good thing was that I did make it up to Pittsburgh in time and was able to see and talk with her both before and after they took her off the machines.

I mentioned to Janet (my other grandmother, last living grandparent) that 91 was a lot longer than I'd ever want to live. Her response, "Wait till you're 90, you may change your mind."

draft for T-Rob

Sweet Innocence

What’s even worse
are those folks who ignore and
abuse us while pretending to
dote on and adore us
make us their pasty white gravy
never taking a biscuit.
Oh, they’ll show us their lipsticks
remind us how their hands
separate the person from the body
slip the trinkets out our pockets.
There’s much we could do
if we wanted to forget.
We could ride buses and collect transfers.
We could make charts, predict our next
bland predicaments, our laments.
We could smell like beer and
never leave the upstairs.

draft

Who the Man Was

. . . And he was the spike in my dream
Scar circling my wrist
He was mother’s whimper
Father’s brown shoe lace
Shredded and trampled
Found his way into everything
Inhabited my pupils
Gnawed ear drums, swung nostril to
Nostril, rested on upper lip fuzz
He rented on Ellsworth, owned on
Summerlea, murdered on Elmer
All charm and vomit
Burgers and pitch forks
I filed a restraining order
Asked for his hand in marriage

draft

Liquid on Display

I long to be admonished
poured into a jar
rust sealed lid.
Place me next to Rasputin
the only part the Russians
thought worth saving.
He’s the true attraction, but
perhaps after gazing
upon his bloated member,
the one that made all the girls scream
for more, or mercy,
perhaps after that their eyes
will take them to my modest jar
filled with lemonade and posies
exposing all my rashes scratched,
knobs and bumps, overused nook
sharp retort grinded flat
they’ll say aloud “I had hoped for
something more impressive”
while thinking, “I could have too much fun
with a girl like that.”

Sinks in My Dreams

Tony Robinson was sending vibes this afternoon and I dreamt this:

I was starting an online literary journal and I decided to separate the computer from the sink. This was a groundbreaking idea because I realized I didn't need to connect the sink to the computer (all the other online journals did, like sheep!). I decided that instead of a sink, I'd do an outside fountain in a greenhouse and the fountain would brew coffee that I would sell. It was brillant, but I started fretting about how would I deliver this coffee and would people just order the dry coffee and brew it themselves and how was I going to get the journal's name on the coffee if I wasn't brewing it?

There was also something about having to go to Home Depot to get the parts to build the fountain and not getting there until late because the people who were helping me were watching TV and buying cheap watches with silver ceramic roses on the crystal. I got angry so my father wrote me a list of everything I'd need to construct the fountain and told me to do it myself. He also told me to put the fountain somewhere where the dogs wouldn't pee.

5 AM Issue #20

Now Available. Poetry by Nin Andrews, Ellen Bass, Gar Bethel, Alan Catlin, Richard Cecil, Peter David, Toi Derricotte, Len Edgerly, Julie Fay, Rina Ferrarelli, Ed Galing, Joseph Green, Tami Haaland, Nathalie Handal, Lola Haskins, David Huddle, Susan Hutton, Lori Jakiela, Peter Johnson, Kasey Jueds, Sandra Kohler, Helen Larner, Lyn Lifshin, Reb Livingston, Gerald Locklin, Lee McCarthy, Robert McDowell, Marjorie Manwaring, Judy Meiksin, Peter Meinke, Erika Meitner, Philip Memmer, Michael Milligan, Abby Millager, Laura Moe, Sean Nevin, David Newman, Craig Paulenich, Eve Rifkah, Jaime Ross, John Smelcer, Terry Stokes, Catherine Strisik, Daneen Wardrop, Afaa Michael Weaver, Jerry Wemple, Carolyn Beard Whitlow, A.D. Winans, Wendy Wisner, Michael Wurster.

One year subscription (two issues): $10

5 AM
Box 205
Spring Church, PA 15686

draft

Wrote some poems at the retreat, some silly, some not. I'll post a few over the coming days.

Apologies for Ice

No bread crumbs or constellations
I see nothing
Except thick trunks, leafy branches
Now is not the time for snow
But I pray for it anyway
It’s crisp and puts me sleep
Charm brings distrust
Wolves, June fools
It’s almost July
Grandma passed away, the wolf
Missed his chance and
Doesn’t know what to do with himself
I squandered mine
Fill freezer trays with water
Stockpile limes just in case
You stop by for a vodka tonic
You’re busy demonstrating your
Quaint breeding for elegant cruelty
Ignore, then apologize beautifully
Seize upon the cold retort
Now I’m the asshole swinging the
Hatchet with no regard for school children
So I bide my time sipping seltzer with the
Animal meant to gobble Grandma
People judge, disapprove
Yet he was the only one to
Send a condolence, start a dialogue
I’m lonesome with no one else
My winter valley upbringing
Taught me all skiers end up
Dead, twisted in the gully
Their locust eyes frozen like feelings
Still able to gaze upon our abundant short comings
As we pile their corpses on the wagon
Which is why my people
Keep their love on a switch
Flip it off and tape it down
Too bad about electricity
Once I was thankful for it
I will be again in
Another life, said sadly, fondly

Ooh La La, Indeed

Met my t-shirt soul-mate, Shomit, on Friday. Everyone knows Bennington poets are whores.

Civilization

Hello my pretties, how I missed you and my Internet connection and even my cursed cell phone. I almost went ape shit convening with nature. I think I might have went ape shit. Lots of stuff to post and chat about. I'm headed out for Mexican with Chris and Brent now.

Check In

Bennington was fun. Hooked up with a bunch folks I haven't seen in a long time. Much to everyone's amazement I managed to stay off the hooch the entire weekend. Damn court order. This afternoon I attended David Lehman's lecture on "Revising the Canon: On Editing" which was fascinating. Putting together the latest Oxford Book of American Poetry is an awfully daunting task. He gave me a galley of the 2004 BAP edited by Lyn Hejinian. I've only had a chance to flip through it, but it looks pretty cool. A couple bloggers are included.

Brent and I are heading to the cottage for our writing retreat tomorrow morning. PF will swing by for an evening. Will be out of e-mail contact (and most likely cell phone contact) until Thursday evening.

Vermont

I'm going to be away for a week. Not sure how much e-mail and blogging (if any) I'll get to do.

Psalm

Every morning I thank my stars for Tender Buttons.

Oh, the countless joys a little sister provides.

Then I thank my stars that I only have one sibling for more than one tender button would be torment.

Father, blessed with so many snagged zippers.

Print vs. Online Pubs, Part 2

A lot of what I was going to say has already been said well enough by other folks in the comment section. There's lots of different ways to do a successful online publication. In most cases I'd rather my work to appear in an online pub that followed a print model than a print pub with a limited circulation because as I said earlier, I want my work to be read. But I still think online pubs would be better served using the medium to their advantage instead of just translating print style. It's so confining. Designing a brand new site for each issue seems to defeat the purpose.

I love the content of Octopus and would definitely check out a cheapo print pub and a "gallery-style" online pub.

Burgh

Arrived at my dad's a couple hours ago. Family is meeting at the hospital at noon

I have a couple responses to the online vs print pub discussion which I'll post tomorrow, if I'm up to it.

Millie

I'm driving to Pittsburgh this evening. My 91-year-old grandmother is dying and they're taking her off of life support on Wednesday. Going to try to catch her alive one last time.

Print vs. Online Pubs

Tony Tost ponders starting an el cheapo print pub because of the frustrating time lags between editing Octopus and actually launching it. I have no idea how he and Zachary manage Octopus but it sounds like they are in a position where they have to rely on other people to physically publish it. Each issue appears to be uniquely designed.

What I don't understand is why so many online publications insist on modeling themselves after print publications. While putting together "issues" for a print magazine makes all kinds of sense, it makes literally no sense for an online publication. Online publications have the ability to update, add and modify on a minute by minute basis -- why put up static content and leave it there for months at a time? Perhaps I took the education I received while working at AOL for granted, but we even pressured content providers like Merriam Webster's Dictionary and Compton's Encyclopedia to "keep it new" and in those cases that was sometimes a challenge. At AOL it was all about "hits" which we now call "visits" -- areas that frequently updated content got more hits. We were obsessed with hits because that meant advertising revenue. In online magazine terms, hits or visits means readers -- any magazine editor should be concerned with readers, finding new ones, keeping the old ones coming back.

For poetry and essays, I believe the best way to find readers is through an online medium. I've published in both print and online magazines and no one has ever contacted me regarding something that appeared in print. I can only assume somebody has read those pieces. I don't really know. But I have been contacted about work appearing online. I know those pieces have been read (and continue to be). My work isn't appearing in magazines with huge distribution, most print journals I've been in have had press runs of a few thousand, appear in a handful of bookstores and have a few hundred subscribers. In a couple of years, it would be nearly impossible for someone to get hold of that issue without going through great lengths. Even a relatively unknown online pub is going to get a couple thousand visits in a month (think of how many visits these one-person blogs get). That's more readers than most print pubs. For as long as an online pub stays in operation, my work is easily accessible years after the fact. For someone who's always been more interested in readers than a myopic view of pub prestige, online is by far preferable.

My advice to anyone publishing an online magazine: Design it so that it can be easily updated (by you! -- learn some html). Forget the "issue" concept. Why make such a big production for something with so little payout? Put up new pieces when you have them and build up your readership. Get readers in the habit of visiting your online magazine on a weekly or even a daily basis.

It's All Good

Just received my contributor copies (and a CHECK) of the anthology It's All Good: How Do You Like It Here NOW? (ISBN 0-916397-85-8) published by Manic D Press.

From the back cover:

Hard-hitting stories, accessible poems, and hair-raising comix answer the question of millennial ennui in the wake of economic crashes, Zoloft for breakfast, and governmental insanity. This lively collection contains fresh work by more than 40 cutting-edge writers and artists: sordid tales of lousy employment and nutty families; curious poems about a cop with diarrhea and a condom-eating cat; ill-fated love stories; and punk rock comix are among the eclectic mix of eccentric offerings.

Hmm . . .

Displacing the Big Chip on My Shoulder

I should be careful. The majority of my posts this week might give the impression I'm a bitter troll. I used to be bitter, but I mellowed after 30. I'm still a troll.

I'm having an e-mail conversation with my friend Laura (someone I met during the height of my bitter troll years at AOL) about how does one find the "best" poetry being written today, the stuff that people will be reading 100, 200 years from now. She wants to know right now who the 21st century Shakespeare or Dante will be. My point was that we'll be hard pressed to figure out what future generations will find valuable and important so why not just read what is valuable and important to us now. But Laura is interested and often bemoans the current state of poetry. I find nothing to bemoan. There's lot of stuff out there I don't like, but there's so much that I do and I'm always finding new poets I really dig that sometimes I'm overwhelmed. Laura doesn't have this problem. She says she finds plenty of "good" poems, but very little that wows her. The poems she finds that she considers "amazing" are from translations of non-English writing poets, especially poets from Poland. I've made suggestions, but our tastes are quite different and I don't think I'm that helpful. She wants poems that are "deeply true and universal."

Any suggestions?

Frankly I like poems that lie their asses off.

On Being a Gal of Working Class Background

I feel Dan's pain. A few years ago up at Bennington I was chatting with the usual bunch of complainers about how the school wasn't doing enough to include people of various backgrounds (which I don't exactly agree with, I think some people ignore extenuating circumstances out of the college's control and the things that are being done, but I digress). One gal brought up the "and there's no working class people here" which I knew not be accurate and I mentioned a few examples of current students with blue collar jobs and backgrounds.

David Mcdonald chimed in with "Reb is working class." I corrected him by explaining by some people's definition, I was raised working class. My adult life is far from working class, but if being working class once is all it takes, then yep, I'm marked. I spent most of my childhood living in a steel town with my extended family including my grandfather who was a builder. My mother just turned 15 when I was born (only finished 9th grade), my father went to technical school to learn how to fix TVs and appliances (which turned out to be a better deal because he learned electronics and was able to get a job fixing computers for Digital and later get a staff job at CMU). The "rich" kids in my school were the ones with parent's who worked for the borough (yeah, that's right, the people who maintained the roads) or owned businesses (like auto repair or pizza shops). Aside from a summer camp my sister and I attended in 1984 (we got the poor kid scholarship), I never met people with any serious money until college (which I didn't have to pay for because my dad was staff there -- talk about a sweet break, I never would have been able to attend otherwise). Speaking of college, I never even heard the term "working class" until I was a freshman and read Marx. I was even more shocked when I came to the realization that my new "peers" considered my family and me that way.

But back to the considerate gal standing up for all us poor slobs with our hard hats and lunch pails. At first she was perplexed (she had no idea, maybe she felt betrayed because we were "passing"). Then she said none of us counted (like one time another gal said Carl Phillips wasn't really a black poet). So I guess since I have long lost my childhood mullet, have pretty finger nails and don't write poems about my kin losing their toes and eyes in the steel mills, I don't count. That's fine, I don't go around introducing myself as a poet with a "working class" background anyhow. I feel no need to establish my Jell-O slurping Kool Aid mustache cred.

But if I get one more invite to another "funny" white trash costume party, I am going to freak.

Love a Good Crowd

Nothing like standing in a sweaty crowd for two hours. Too much sun and close proximity makes people mean. For instance, some chick in see-through yellow linen pants (nice thong toots, but you might want to cut that tag out before you wear them again) barged right through the crowd to get a closer spot. She was a good three inches taller than me and for a few minutes stood right in front of me as I silently seethed and thought up a bunch of mean cracks (about her ass, of course). Then she moved a little further up, even more obnoxiously and some guy said "There's no reason for you to act like such a bitch." Her response was "Being white doesn't put you in charge" and then she moved up a little further.

Speaking of mean people. Tender Buttons observed my situation and decided she wasn't going to back down when the lady next to her tried to squeeze into her personal space. She stood her ground alright, so the lady stood on her feet and bumped into her about a 100 times. I tried not to look back at TB much because her evil glare was hilarious and I was doing my best to be respectful and not break out into full cackle.

I figured most folks have seen the Reagan procession pics on the news. I'm sure they're better than what we took, but if you're interested in all billion snapshots, here you go.

Here are a few select pics:


Solemn TB & Reb


Flag Draped Casket


The Boot


A Totally Huge Police Officer (like almost 7 foot tall). Chris wanted a picture next to him to show how much bigger the cop was (Chris is 6'8 and not too many people are bigger). Of course, this photo doesn't show this to be the case at all. Perhaps it was the angle or the distance. Or perhaps we all were suffering from heatstroke.

Just got off the phone with Tender 'Humpa' Buttons.

Let's Get Real

Eileen Tabios responds (scroll down to Tuesday) to my The Life of a Poet post.

Anybody Who's Everybody

Just spoke to Marcus and he'll be meeting us at Union Station at 5.

Jealous, Sam?

If I get any good pictures, I'll post them here.

Never One to Miss a Good Funeral

I'm not really going to a funeral (that's Friday and I'm not stepping foot near the city then), but I am headed downtown this afternoon to hook up with Tender Buttons and try to get a glimpse of the Reagan procession on its way to Capitol Hill and the planes flying overhead. No political statement. Just attending. The man is only going to die once. After that Chris and I will attend a Johnnie Walker Tasting Event. No, I don't drink scotch. But who knows, maybe the day will move me.

Life of a Poet, Part 2

I tried posting this earlier this afternoon, but blogger was down.

Thanks to everyone who commented. You made me feel a little less mean and heartless. Cave dwelling, I'll have to pass that on.

Some of you may have already read about the Brooks Brother Poet, but for those of you who haven't, there's a good article in Sunday's Washington Post about him. Is he any less of a poet because he works in retail? If all poets taught or edited for a living, we'd have a pretty limited scope of poems to read.

Last night I saw Kim Addonizio read at Chapters. It was, what I thought, an interesting mix of attendees, all age ranges, people coming straight from work still wearing their business attire, etc. I assumed a number of them were readers only and not poets. I came to this conclusion by eavesdropping on some conversations and it was clear many had never attended a reading before. At the end of the reading, Kim asked everyone who was a writer to raise their hands and everybody except 2 or 3 did. Just shows you can't pick a poet in the crowd. That's right TB, not a single beret!

The Life of a Poet

Last week, one of my poet pals called and was terribly upset. Without getting into too many details, lots of things going wrong or not happening at all, some out of his control, some (at least in my opinion) he could change, but it would mean he'd have to make some decisions he doesn't seem willing to make.

One thing he said was "I don't know why I ever became a poet" and this struck me as odd and insanely naive. What does one expect when he/she consciously decides to study and pursue poetry? I can't imagine any career that more clearly implies one will never make enough to support oneself (if one manages to make anything at all). There are no job advertisements for "Poet" in the newspaper, no agencies that help place poets or anything even remotely close to that. When I give family members copies of journals where my work appears in they ask, "Oh, they paid you for this?" Sure did, two copies and I'm splitting the spoils with you.

The whole "working in something related to the field" seems like a real crap shoot too. Teaching on a college level? Sure, there's a few of those jobs. Only you and a couple thousand better published MFAs (and Ph.Ds) are applying to those jobs. What if one gets one of those adjunct jobs? Minus a trust fund or spouse with a well paying job, one still has to have a second job to pay the rent. Everybody I know with an adjunct position has at least one of those three things. The same goes for most publishing and non-profit art administration gigs. Those are all noble and in many cases enriching jobs and I think anybody interested in doing them should pursue them. But there's a reality that goes along with it and expecting anything other than that is, well, ridiculous.

One impression I get from my friend is that he feels a sense of entitlement from his MFA. Now I don't regret anything about getting my MFA, I found my time at Bennington immensely fulfilling and valuable. Notice I said, I find it valuable. Few other people do. In fact, in terms of the job market I think I was more hireable without it. The truth (and I think this is so obvious I feel silly for spelling it out) the MFA degree gives nothing. What you learn while getting the degree is another thing that may help you pursue your writing, maybe, but it's hardly a ticket to the big leagues -- whatever that is supposed to be. How many MFAs are churned out each year? Is it in the high hundreds? Is it over a thousand? Maybe. All I know is that it's a lot and every year it's a new crop. Can one really be that outraged when one doesn't land one of those few teaching jobs offered each year? How long can one live in poverty, not pursue and turn down non-field jobs and cry about how nobody wants him? I don't have any problem with somebody living in poverty and waiting if that's the route he want to take, but accept that's the route being chosen and accept it's going to be a miserable ride. Hey, that sounds like the life of a poet to me. MISERY!

Now, pursuing a rock 'n roll career, I could see how someone might be swept away into that fantasy and ignore the reality of hard work, tough breaks and round-the-clock rejection. Turn on the TV, flip open a magazine, it's bling bling and non-stop head. Sure, that does seem like fun.

I run a small jewelry business, saved some money from my corporate job and, most importantly, have a husband with a good job that covers living expenses. That is how I live and write poetry. That is the life of this poet. If my husband left me or lost his job, I'd be out the next day begging for one of those "grunt" jobs my friend believes he's too good for. I wouldn't be crying about how I had an MFA and was a poet yet I was reduced to doing whatever (although I might be crying for other reasons).

What is the fantasy of a poet's life? Where is this fantasy perpetuated? I'm serious. I don't have this fantasy, but obviously other people do. Would somebody please tell me what this entails so I could understand my friend's predicament, you know, be a more sympathetic friend.

Dinner with Mr. & Mrs. Phatback

. . . or the grisley groan of Mr. T's mum.

Chris, Tender Buttons and I had the pleasure of dinner at casa de Phatback Saturday evening.

As soon as we arrived Kim showed us the latest gift given to her by Al. They've been married less than a year and give each other gifts for no reason at all. Isn't that adorable? I called it it a "pin," TB corrected me and called it a "brooch" then Kim corrected both of us and called it something French. I have no idea what she said.


Me being very happy for Kim.


Spinster TB getting a taste of what she'll never have. But she has her career!


Al, pimp chef


Al & Kim demonstrating the origin of their moniker.


Waiting for Al to serve us


Hey now!


Dinner was some kind of tied meat logs and pasta (no vegetables!). Al had a fancy name for the meat logs, but it was difficult to pronounce and I forget. I'm also supposed to bitch because there was some ham in it and I don't eat ham.


But I'm not going to bitch, because Al & Kim gave a us a gift, Mr. T's Be Somebody . . . Or Be Somebody's Fool, an inspirational video for children.


It was truly inspiring

Some People

This past week, yesterday especially, has been a steady slew of other people's problems. Telephone calls, e-mails and late dinnertime conversations. The stars must be working overtime and sending them my way. I'm not complaining, but by yesterday evening I was exhausted. Chris and I went out for drinks before dinner (something we usually don't do with just the two of us). Hell, I even turned down a last-minute trip to the nickel slots with the in-laws to stick around and offer consolation about layoffs. OK karma police, I've been on good behavior.


Here's a hint for all you folks with books coming out, if I mention that I'd like to write a review, be sure to send me a copy. Don't do nothing and make me go on Amazon and get it. How many reviews do you think most poetry books get? I know I'm not writing for the New York Times but NewPages gets thousands of readers. It's an opportunity. So help yourself out. Sure, I will buy it, I buy lots of books. But there's something about making a girl feel special that would work in your review favor. Someone should post that on Foetry. "Books sent with endearing inscriptions induce stellar reviews. Unfair!"

How to Impress a Gal

Every weekday (weather permitting) I walk 3 miles outside on the paths and then I usually follow that with 2-3 miles on my treadmill blasting music (cause I learned on Dr. Phil one can hit a "plateau" and have to ramp it up a bit to see more results). I don't use a walkman when I walk outside for obvious reasons. One, I want to hear the birds singing, cicadas chirping, geese hissing, wind blowing, twigs snapping, etc. But more importantly, I want to be aware of my surroundings in case someone tries to bum rush me.

Typically, I'm a friendly person and happy to say hello, make brisk passer by chit chat. I'm from Pittsburgh, it's what we do best. If it's somebody I see on a daily basis, like the elderly Japanese man jogging with hand weights, I am even more at ease. I have blog buddies and I have path buddies. Rarely does a day go by when a group of workers (construction, landscaping, etc.) don't stop what they're doing, gawk and often make a comment. They've been working all day and are just looking for a momentary distraction. On these paths they probably get a bunch of momentary distractions, but whatever, I'm not stingy with my hellos. Same goes for the creepy dudes who sit on the benches by themselves leering. A quick "hiya" and I'm on my way. I walk with purpose, pump my arms, so usually people don't try to stop me for extended idle chit chat. I exude: "Gotta Be Someplace."

As long as they don't try to get me into their cars or expose themselves (both have happened several times), it's all good. And I'm not out trying to find an afternoon quickie partner, so it really doesn't matter to me what these men have to say. But, today I had two men, one guy sitting on a chair outside of a barber shop and one guy milling around with 6 or 7 other workers comment to me about the weather within 40 feet of each other. The weather! Nothing impresses a gal less than talking about the weather. Well, maybe network security might impress a gal less, but you get my point. Oh yes, I think you do.

Punk Ass Squirrels Versus Punk Ass Mother Nature

Charles was never in charge.

TB, do you know where my "Dirty Dancing" poster went?

Name Calling

Right before Chris left for work today he called me a "hostile network element" and added something about what a shame it was that he had to design the network around his wife.

This started with him recommending an article in WIRED magazine about all the security flaws with Friendster (yeah, like I'm ever going to read that!). Then he asked me if I had Molly's phone number so I could give her a password and I said I'd just e-mail it to her. See, that was a joke, I know better than that, but Mr. "I'm a very important network security engineer and nerdy don't play that" started in with the name calling.

I pulled out my journal and said "wait, let me write that down, maybe someday I could use it" and started slowly pronouncing the offending term -- apparently when I say things slowly my Pittsburgh accent is very obvious. I can't hear it, but he said instead of saying hos-style I was saying haus-stawl.

Hence, more teasing insued.

Poets, be warned. Shacking up with technical people is not all wireless networks and Sci-Fi channel movie marathons. There is a price to be paid and I'm not talking about the ugly t-shirts.

Mutual

Two things lucky error and Home-Schooled by a Cackling Jackal have in common:

1. Foucault
2. punk ass

One thing lucky error has that I wish Home-Schooled by a Cackling Jackal did too:

1. Scott Baio

Accentuate the Positive

Instead of putting together a website that supposedly outs all the "unscrupulous" contests, judges and editors, why hasn't somebody put together a site that offer real tips poets can use to their publishing advantage?

For instance:

Editor X is susceptible to flattery regarding his scholarly work on the Byzantine avant-garde.

Judge Y has a nickel slot addiction. She doesn't get paid until the first of the month, late-month loans and bus tickets to Atlantic City would be received with appreciation and discretion.

Editor Z has a weakness for 30-something female poets and knee socks.


They could call it Whoretry or Hoetry.

Joon!!!

My astrologer said big things were supposed to happen for me this summer -- starting in June (May was just supposed to be a warm-up). Ok. I'm ready. Here I am, Sir Big Thing.