No pictures here today. I am finally committing to have my full-length collection (no title yet) edited. I can’t wait to see what happens. It has a lot of stuff in it. I just call it a WORD DOC now. My recent chapbook, THESE BURNING FIELDS came from this book. It is so close to my heart. It is filled with pain. Here is some writing below:
The truth is I am a hag. And not the witchy GAME OF THRONES kind, but the boring everyday mom that no one wants, I have it all, they say. I am really sick, they say. And the beauty of misery is so skeptical of me. How can you be miserable, they say? And, right, the truth is, I am not. I do everything right, I suppose. And, that too, is not right. I am a hag, boring, petulant in my happiness, The beauty of stations of caterwauling. I am no poet, they say. That is fine. The truth is, I don’t want your poetry. And the French men tell me that misery condemns us to platitudes. And they tell me I have too much this, and too much that. There is no paucity in my future. The truth is that is not the truth. I am poverty now. If I told you so many things about me, you might blush, or you might say I am a hag. Older, I guess, but lack of perpetual and factual. I make things up. I think. No, I am too honest.