It's not raining where I am. It's not snowing where I am. There's little wind and it's dark, and has gotten warmer since this morning, when frost encased the park I smashed through. In the book I'm reading I am still waiting for Heydrich to be killed (see previous post) but on the train home I got to the chapter called "Assassination," so hey it can't be long now. Also just around the corner is November, my birth month, with its own dark weather.
The November issue of
Thrush came out today, and I have three poems in it, along with a number of fellow poets, including
Margaret Bashaar and
Sandy Longhorn. The first of my poems,
Palisades, is a sea poem. The second,
Ceraunoscope, is a self-hate poem, and the third,
Self-Portrait with Lava Lamp, is exactly that.
I'm off now to walk the dog, who can hardly wait.
2 comments:
I wrote a Lava Lamp poem ages ago. It's somewhere I haven't seen in ages. I'll have to go look it up, then tear it up, as yours is the definitive.
As is everything you write, Sloaty.I wish I could take you in a pill.
You are too kind, Ron. Thanks for reading. And I love when you call me Sloaty. I'm thinking of changing my name to that.
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