elsewhere blogging cont.

Advice to (m)other(f)ucking ho(a)rd(s) at We Who Are About to Die

Ah, of course, it's the Neptunian undertow.

Woke in the middle of the night and committed the cardinal sin of not writing down my dream. Sometimes I'm so sleepy, I convince myself I'll remember and bam, bye bye dream. I woke in the morning and only remembered children announcing the death of the snake queen. I remember feeling relieved to learn of this. In January I had dreamed of an encounter with the snake queen. Let's just say her poison was much stronger than my poison.

Today I had a weird experience. All morning I thought I smelled marijuana--coming from me. Now I don't smoke, anything, there's nothing of the sort in the house, and nobody outside the house was smoking up, so I pondered if maybe that's just what my breath smells like when I eat cupcakes and apples for breakfast. Early in the afternoon I took a brief nap--now that Gideon is in school full-time, I totally can and have absolutely no guilt about that, sleep makes me pretty so who cares how productively I could be using that time. It can fucking wait is my new motto.

I had two dreams during that nap . . . one was about trying to help an old lady mystic figure out which food was poisoned (likely candidate: the pizza). There was also some possible upcoming scandal about people finding out my true relationship with a ladypoet pal of mine. It was strange because the incriminating poems were written years ago--why are people just reading them and putting it all together now?

In the second dream I walked into my "beach" bedroom. The furniture was rearranged, the blankets and curtains were white, it was really nice. I had a bunch of new clothes that I hung in the closet. Each hanger had a different woman's face. I'd tell each hanger how beautiful she was. There was a man in the room helping me. He then pulled out a map and I knew I was dreaming and it was time to pay attention because he was going to tell me something really important. First, he pointed out Neverland and told me I definitely didn't want to go there. He told me that I was currently in Ireland and that I needed to go to three places. The first place was called Homalee (Honalee?) (Homily?) and I need to get the _______ horn. I waited for him to tell me the second two places, but I knew this was all I was getting now and was about to get booted out of my nap.

I woke and racked my brain trying to remember what HORN was it that I was supposed to get. I thought, maybe it was a dragon horn, but I couldn't be sure. Then I thought hey, dragon, PUFF the Magic Dragon and it was Honalee which would totally explain my imaginary weed breath. Or it could be a reference to reclaiming something from childhood. Or it could be a reference to weed from childhood, which would totally fit too.

Last week I had two violent pirate dreams, so I think it's probably good advice to stay out of Neverland. Ireland is a fine place to visit, but I think I'd be depressed if I had to live to live there. So yeah, time I get my ass out of Ireland and on to Honalee.

(heart) five year olds

Today, while mailing review copies of Bruce's Glass Is Really a Liquid, Gideon explained to the postal worker what it is that I do:

My mommy copies other people's poems.

(pause)

If they're good enough.

* * *

Earlier this week I pointed out an early 80's Trans Am and explained to Gideon that his grandfather used to drive one.

I'm learning so much about the old days, Christopher Columbus and now Grandpa's car!


Yep, the Nina, the Pinta, the Santa Maria and KITT.

today's obvious dream about writing

A bunch of mom-poets are meeting in my laundry room in my basement. This was planned, but I forgot. This is the grungiest room in my house and I'm worried about the litter box not being clean. I tell one of the mom-poets that I'll be right down after I finish cleaning the kitchen.

As I'm wiping down the new appliances, it occurs to me that I sent out an invite for another party at my house at 4pm on Sunday--just a few minutes from now. I hope nobody shows up. I realize I never checked the invite to see who RSVPed. The whole house is a mess and I haven't done anything to prepare. As soon as I remember, people start showing up, lots of poets. I'm quickly trying to clean the house. There's clutter everywhere. Somebody says it's a shame the remodeled kitchen isn't clean, because this would be a great opportunity to show it off. I'm yelling for Chris to do things, go run out to the store, slice some cheese, etc. I realize that I have to offer drinks to the guests. I see the floor needs to be swept, but that's just not going to happen. I tell everyone that there's a separate gathering downstairs for just the mom-poets, but don't feel left out. I joke that the mom-poets are just talking about tampons. Everyone laughs.

Then time goes back a few hours. I remember the party and while it'll be tight, I should have just enough time to get ready.

elsewhere blogging & interview & discounts

I introduce Better Homes Through Poems at We Who Are About To Die It's a cool, new storefront with over 100 poetry titles.

and

Tonight I'll be interviewed by Vangile Makwakwa on Speak 2B Free at 7PM EST. We'll be discussing publishing and poetry. If you're not around to hear it live, you can always listen to the recording afterwards. It's your opportunity to hear my melodious yinzer cackle.

and

God Damsel is now discounted 15% off as is the rest of the No Tell titles. Details here.

recent obvious dreams about writing

There was a national writing cabin, but it burned down. The Obamas had a new one built. It's beautiful and amazing. Sometimes people cry there. It was one of the first things they did when he got into office. Pres. Obama said put (the large amount, forgetting the number) on the credit card and tell them he said so. This was back when he was really popular and could do such a thing.

I'm considering renting a writing cabin and holding a retreat. I'm thinking about announcing it and inviting other writers, but there's one poet who I'll lie to and say we're all full if he asks to join.

I'm in the backyard of my childhood home. I'm playing fetch with the new owner's dog. If I don't throw the ball far enough, across the dirt road into the neighbor's yard, the dog won't bother bringing the ball back. I don't tell the new owner that I used to live here. I don't want to creep her out and make her think I'm obsessed with the place.

I'm looking online at Vermont writing cabins. I see one that advertises it's gourmet kitchen appliances. It looks nice with triangular hallways. The windows have sheepskin coverings. It looks very warm. I wonder if it'll be too warm for when I'm there. My sister thinks it'll be too hot. I say that sometimes it's really cold. I remind of her a recent blizzard. I ask, weren't you cold? She says no. She's acting like she's never cold.

* * *

I'm with a group of ragtag poets. A pudgy, long-haired man is in charge. We're getting ready to go. I go upstairs to get my books, 2 copies of Your Ten Favorite Words and 6 of God Damsel. I realize that I grabbed Rebecca Loudon's Cadaver Dogs instead. The colors are kind of similar. I consider trying to pass those off as my own, but go back up and get GD instead. I take out the books I'm done reading in my messenger bag. I leave in some I think I might read later. I meet the group, the leader has malevolent plans. One of the poets follows him -- the rest of us, not so much. We're on a field being approached by a group of children rugby players. The leader poet starts cursing their dogs and wants us to join. I say I'm not wishing anything bad on dogs. I turn to the kids and say something like "what are you looking at?" I (and the rest of the poets) keep walking. We're going to break into some kind of lab, one of the poets is going to sneak in and have some kind of experiment done on him. I know what's going to to happen, he will die unless I go against the leader and pull the poet out in time -- which I know I will do because I'm in love with him. We're going through a stairwell. We see the status of things. Kilroy is now at 10.

* * *

I walk up to a table under a canopy. I'm going to have dinner with a former teacher and his wife. I talk to them about their tireless work and suggest they do too much. I mention another poet who over-exerts herself and isn't really appreciated. There's a a young male poet here. It's raining and much of it is coming into the tent. The young male poet holds an umbrella over my head. Then I hold my own umbrella. We talk about what a bummer it is that it's raining on our big dinner. The rain slows. I notice the poet's baby. Every time I touch the baby, he cries. I ask if the baby doesn't like to be scratched and the poet says he does, but clearly not when I do it. He hands the baby to another poet. The baby is happy and calm with her. There's something about me the baby doesn't like.

The Equalizer

You can either subscribe to The Equalizer by sending an email to the address below, or you can read the installments by downloading at one of the links. Readers are encouraged to forward it to other readers and upload the files on their own websites.

My poems (some appear in 1.3 and some will appear in a later installment) are from God Damsel -- these are my last poems in circulation. At this writing, I have nothing coming up and no poems under consideration anywhere. I have a pile of drafts and fragments that kinda make me sad. I am reworking some, writing new pieces, trying to write something I think is good enough. Is it me or the poems? Still trying to figure that out.

The Equalizer 1.3

Joshua Corey, Stephanie Anderson, Buck Downs, Shanna Compton, Laura Carter, Peter Davis, Alana Dagen, Reb Livingston, Cody Walker, John Cotter, Craig Santos Perez, and Chris Martin.

If you’d like to sign up for The Equalizer mailing list to receive sections as they’re released throughout October 2010, please email theunrulyservant (at) gmail (dot) com.


The Equalizer 1.1 available via HTMLGiant and Maureen Thorson.

The Equalizer 1.2 available via HTMLGiant and Maureen Thorson.


Oct. 7: The Equalizer 1.4 featuring a selection of John Gallaher’s Guidebooks.