we’re here till morning, so time for another post.

The Sox win another. I find I’m keeping the running box score window from SI.com open, just to make sure I can speak defensively about the games to people as they happen.

Working on a really interesting project that popped up in the last two hours — a solicitation to read at the Mystic Arts Cafe in Mystic, CT — a prestigious (read: stuffy and fairly academic) series that has traditionally scorned slammers, with the exception of Taylor Mali. They want samples, so I’m scrambling to send them something before I hit the sack.

I’m beat, but have a lot to do. Drop me a line, I need the distraction.

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By the way, since I deleted the other post: I’m leaving in the morning for a week away. Won’t be back till next weekend. Have fun.

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When I grow up
I want to be a gun
big enough and loud enough
that my son can say
“I am a son of a gun”
with the straight face
he inherited from me

Want to blow things up daily
while smelling vaguely of hell
Want to bark like a colonial relic
and figure my worth
in trajectories

When I am not a man
I still like to think I could be a gun
deathless by myself and useful
to a cause or two or more
When I am not a lover
I like to imagine a harem of daggers
with me the gun glinting thickly among them

When I am sad
I am the thin .22
When I am angry
I am the hot .44
When I am most human
I am a scope and crosshairs so
nothing need be done dirty and close

I wish I was the gun I see
at my head when I awaken
in the night
I wish I owned my fate as he does