Austin

Somehow, the AWP chatter is picking up already. C. Dale reports the Austin Hilton is very nearly sold out. I'm glad I'd already made reservations, not thinking space would be limited so soon. I just found out I'll be on a panel, the name of which causes me to laugh just a bit: The Order of the Disorder: Creative Writers in Disability Studies. The Order of the Disorder makes me think of The Legion of Doom. Ah, Saturday mornings. I need to move the Superfriends set up in my Netflix queue. But, I was talking about Austin. I'm looking forward to it, though with no university affiliation to help fund some of the cost, I'll have to sell plasma, old comic books, my body, to pay for it.

I'm kidding. I'm keeping the comic books.

Katrina

Just horrible to see and hear all the destruction. Outside, the tattered edges of the storm have been arriving since last night: rain, gusty wind, eery tropicality. Thankful, at least for today, that I'm here and not in Starkville. Tuscaloosa would get hit pretty hard by the tropical storms, remains of hurricanes that would come through. So I remember that. And Carbondale had tornados. Maybe I'll go for earthquakes next.

Check out the totally hot Laurel Snyder

Her author's pic.

And legends

MAPS

What am I good for. I’m no use for direction—

that I never learned the taxonomy

of velocity, the named streets, the numbered

highways, the oil-black gears, secret

cylinders, the spark of combustion, flashpoint,

the miles and the minutes. But,

distance. But, distance, born to it

and beginning the instant of the first

breath: in my bones, the marrow-filled fossa,

I know it the way the moon knows

water. Knows you, blinking back

the day, the song on the radio a currency, a current.

In chilled air I shopped for a map,

but found pills, found baggies of bad food,

found camouflage to hide me,

found neon lighters and nothing worth want,

never. And I left, the rusted bell

above the door singing

its song to passage. How could I not start to sing,

then, of the spent condom

by the dumpster, shed like a skin, sun-yellowed,

used up? All I wanted

was not this.

Reminder

The St. Lawrence Book Award

O Wendy!

Check out Wendy Wisner over at Verse Daily.

Shout out to another one of my Alabama peeps

Leah Nielsen

I'm so not cool

But I did sign copies of my first book tonight for these people:

Rory Kennedy

Mark Ordesky

Sure, The Lord of the Rings movies were great, but, Critters 4? Now we're talking!

Pre-order

I'm excited to announce you may now pre-order my second book, Notes for My Body Double, directly from the publisher. It will, of course, also be available through Amazon upon its publication in February, but this way you'll get it sooner and directly support a growing small press, both of which are cool. So do me a favor and order this thing like crazy.

Possible cover for my second book. Thoughts? 

2 new

SAY

In Persia you would have been happiest—

the air a frail satin, the clouds cut

to the earth’s form, and below, the loose

limbed Hindi gods in ink blot

pajamas, lounging. I won’t say languorous—

you’d laugh, you’d strike

down with better words

like a rain storm. How like a goddess

then you’d be. When last

we kissed, you shied your ear

away from my mouth:

too sensitive to such touch.

But not your breasts

and not the scuff of your elbow.

It was in that breath

that worship could begin.

And I won’t say a thing

about Hanuman, the monkey god

and my all time favorite

deific goofball. For all his half-holy charm,

he has no place

in the contiguous heaven

of the bed. Tell me, would you,

what word out of all

has any place in my mouth except you and you and you?

APOLOGIA

The homework swallowed the dog

and I left my burdened wallet

in my other life, in my other car,

which is a Soyuz, Russian

in only the ways that matter.

And what those ways are,

well, I forget. It is a good thing

the constellation of atoms

you recognize as me

has not yet sought to diverge,

to divorce itself

from this idea I keep having

about being alive. That:

it’s lucky my lungs fill up with air

each morning like little

buckets brought to the pebbled rim of the river

by a girl who thinks

about devotion

the slow way back to everyone,

to endless thirst.

And that girl is you,

though you’ll bristle

at the very notion,

and rightly so:

what sense does it make to speak

of heartbreak

for even a moment

in this world cluttered as it is with warehouses

of cheap peanut butter,

skinned with little puddles of oil,

what sense does it make

to ask you

why I am constantly dreaming I’m late

to your life? What sense

is there anywhere?

In what tree sings the bird

to which I spent all spring

teaching it the mimicry

of your sweet laugh,

but not the burr of your anger,

like a stone,

like a blade,

and not the worried ways of your tired voice.

It’s late again

and the moon

teaches me stealth

and borrowed light

and lowered gravity

and before sleep floats me afar on its dreamless river,

let me say

my apologies

like a prayer,

to you,

let me miss you as long as I’m alive.

Argentina

No, I'm not heading there, that's not Plan B, but now that I think of it....

No, I'm saying, don't cry for me. I'm an unemployed quadriplegic poet and if that isn't a license to print money, then I don't know what is.

And, clearly, I don't.

But, seriously, you darlings, you lovelies: yeah, it sucks right now. But I reckon I'll pull through and figure something out. That something may be abject poverty but at least it'll be mine, all mine.

Thanks for everyone's good wishes. You may send duffle bags of cash and/or gold bullion or, preferably, skee-ball tickets.

Sublurbs

Got blurb #1 for my book today, which is very cool, and very kind of the blurber. It's exciting for things to begin happening on it.

Dispatch from Turmoil, USA

The latest: apparently my brother may have sustained tissue damage, at least on his right hand, approximate to that of a third degree burn. He went to see his doctor yesterday, who was taken aback when he unwrapped the bandages, stammering, "You know, uh, I'm just an internist...." He caught himself, though, treated some of the wounds and referred him to a wound care center and a plastic surgeon. It's possible he might need some skin grafts.

He received utterly inept attention at the ER; it sounded like that to me but I wasn't there. Seeing his wounds all week, I couldn't believe they sent him home without even suggesting he might need serious specialty care. It might turn out he won't, of course, but I'd be surprised.

My dad, in his way, is very tenderhearted and is just devestated; I think he's going to snap. ;)

And this Tuesday my brother Chan will be released from prison after six years. A great thing, of course, but also more turmoil. He's being released early and so will be under house arrest until March.

Everyone here is on edge.

And this is to say nothing about my impending move to Starkville. Since the possibility came up, my family has been less than enthusiastic about the move. We had a good idea that Chan would be out soon, so that loomed above all else in their minds. And I understand that. So I've been setting everything up on my own. There were times when I worried I might not be able to take the job. But I believe it's going to work out after all.

Interesting times.

Road rash

So I got to see my brother's wounds today. Just awful, sickening. His hands are peeled raw and so too his arms and back. The police estimate he skidded 250 feet. Which is very nearly the length of a football field. He's insanely lucky that he's generally not hurt that badly.

Donorcycle

I have twin brothers, or, rather, brothers who are twins. One of them wrecked his motorcycle today. I don't have the whole story but I believe it involves a wheelie. At speed. He was thrown across the road a good distance and so is essentially human hamburger now. He's generally ok, nothing broken, but his entire upper body is wrapped in bandages. From his hands, the palms being essentially skinless now, up to his shoulders. He's the Human Scab now. His sides are scraped and gouged. His fingers are swollen with blisters. He's walking around like The Mummy, stiff-armed.

At least he had on his helmet.