By request

Taylor, eagle-eyed as ever, requested a repost of these images. Below, a recent Obama picture:


And to the right, the original, taken some nine years ago.

I'll let you draw your own conclusions.

Tennessee goth

Dear, sweet, H.R. Pufnstuf, who knew your druggy 70's hangover would attract so much attention here? All I know is it felt right at the time.

***

Today I'm making what are very likely last edits on my next book of poems. I love the sense of resolution generated by a deadline: that it is time to choose. The shedding that happens, that you fear beforehand, is in reality a great pleasure. You see the real book become itself.

You spend so much time mucking about in uncertainty that any time it falls away is golden.

***


Ultra-mega congratulations to ultra-mega babe Stacey Brown for winning the 2007 Cider Press Review Book Award, chosen by Tony Hoagland.

H. R. Pufnstuf - Mechanical Boy.

Ob

INVITATION

Paul Guest, I am looking forward to your birthday
and the long chain of fitful celebrations
which will follow and be broken
by something like inconsiderate death
or the envelope of oblivion. Paul Guest,
I'm looking forward to your arrival,
your flight, your train, your steamer rocking
in on a lucky wave. When will you
be here, Paul Guest, with your combs
and pockets and mad fits of despair?
Paul Guest, when will you ever be happy?
When will you sign treaties
and agreements and accords
and truces tied up with ribbon,
when will you decide to live peaceably
with yourself, Paul Guest?
When will you open cans of soup
that would have kept forever,
forever in their vacuums of salt,
and stir them on to a fire
and think yourself at last
an imposter under the grave stars
no more? When will you fall
asleep and be full and not long
for a distant woman, your words
no signposts for the way back to wherever
you were, Paul Guest?
What will you say, Paul Guest?
No one knows. No one ever has
spoken the right thing
or walked away not hating
his mouth for the sake of the air
that was in it, that wouldn’t
take shape, keep it, or at least fall into quiet,
which is an endless water.
Paul Guest, you have tried
to vanish, a thousand times, Paul Guest.

In a theater near you

I mean, bookstore, this October: My Index of Slightly Horrifying Knowledge.

From my window

Run away

Internet = back on and, boy, was that annoying. I don't mind so much being cut off from the web, or even my own email, but it sure throws a monkey wrench in your teaching, especially when you've been gone nearly a week.

And here we go.

***

I fired the Sunshine Lady. Just before I left she intimated, in an underhanded, almost threatening way that she wanted a substantial raise, despite being paid according to her own terms.

Suddenly, these weren't good anymore.

Essentially, it was extortion. She thought I wouldn't say no, that I needed her too much not to cave.

When I returned from AWP, I called her to discuss matters, even though in my mind she'd already committed a serious breach of trust. I wasn't going to continue to employ her. But I wanted to at least hear her out.

But she was, rather instantly, what's the word -- a bitch, yelling, demanding.

"I won't need your services anymore," I said and hung up.

The next morning I had my locks changed.

***

AWP was the blurriest of any I've attended. That's saying a lot. Wednesday morning my flight to LaGuardia at 9:45 was canceled. Almost instantly, the entire body of passengers rose up and began running the 19 gates to the Delta customer service desk to be rebooked.

I raced after them, weaving in and out, moving up through the pack. I knew there was no way they'd keep up that pace so I carefully passed each one.

But there was one woman who was determined to be first, running hard with her luggage. I pulled even with her, for just a bit, then poured out the chair's last speed, leaving her behind.

A rare moment when being disabled is intensely amusing.

We flew into JFK instead. Our baggage was lost. Fantastic.

That night: Spamalot starring Clay Aiken.

Thursday morning our luggage was delivered. I had a change of clothes to wear for my panels. I read from my memoir at nine and four poems at noon. Lunch was here. Then I signed a few books at the bookfair, one for Reb. That night dinner was -- I can't remember. A reception for University of Alabama peeps in a truly horrid bar. Eddie Money's "Take Me Home Tonight" roared out.

Eddie Money.

Friday morning I slept late until 10. I met with Dan Halpern at 1. I ate a burger with Betsy at 4. Dinner was a nice Thai place, reached in pouring rain. Shrimp with roasted garlic. My hoodie jacket gave me an 8 Mile affect.

Met Eduardo. Who was great. I salute you, sir.

Ended up in a hotel room filled with more alcohol than people: Josh Bell, Matt Guenette, Ron Mitchell, Dawn Teft, Amber Flora. Tomb Raider was playing.

And Saturday. I can't even begin.

Came home to a busted up internet connection so I'm in my office. A more full reporting will soon follow, when I'm plugged in again. Suffice it to say, I had a great time this year, so much better than last year. Hi to everyone.