Well, Annie’s been sick, so we haven’t gotten to the movies yet. And I’m likely skipping tonight at the Asylum for the same reason. (Sorry, Shakti.)

In other news, I’m working on a weird poem right now that talks about what happens when anticipation becomes memory. Not sure it’s working, but it’s an interesting concept.

I always find it difficult to get into the poetry-creation mode after releasing a new book. My body and soul cry out for a rest…but I fear rest, I fear it like death. It is death.

One of these days, I fear I may dry up and disappear in the wind that blows through where my poetry used to be. I have an obsessive need to keep the door blocked open until that happens, just to make sure everything that can get out does get out.

I’ve probably written 3,000 poems in my lifetime. (Seriously. Figure an average of 100 per year for 30 years or so.) I like probably 100. The world has heard maybe 75.

Bad statistics? I dunno. They’re mine…I own them.

I just wish they didn’t also own me.