{ event museum }

Apart from doing a schizophrenic marathon called 30:30 and my TPM/Press 1 duties, I am also guilty of such oddities:

• The mercy-killing (through viral infection) and eventual resuscitation of my laptop. Because it got rid of programs and files I wanted to get rid off but didn't have the heart to remove.

• On my way to yoga class, I allowed myself to be picked up by a strange man, and later, gave him a full-body massage. Teehee.

It's actually a lot less interesting than that, but it's way too ticklish not to write about in public. The guy's actually someone I know (not biblically, sorry to disappoint) in yoga class. The ayurveda massage was part of the yoga class — which involved a lot of kicking on the fella's arms and legs, who took it lying down. All very boring. Of course, afterwards I made it a point to ask how it was for him.

• Have discovered a new use for old sneakers: When positioned correctly, they act as a second night stand and can safely balance up to 20 poetry books. When performed every night for three years in order to allow bed space for a spouse, it may actually lead to enlightenment.

• Yoganidrasana, or the Yogic Sleep Pose (see pic below) seems to be part of my default setup. The keyword no doubt is sleep. Program anything with the word "sleep" in it and my body will see it to completion.


• Revised a collection of 70 poems in one day. Tentative title moved from Lean Season to Seeing Birds in Church is a Kind of Adieu. Probably the result of reading too much spam mail that say I've got length problems.

• Took pictures of myself as requested by the 34th Parallel editors. Nothing topless — sorry to disappoint again. And even if, you'd still need a magnifying lens to see what I've got... only on a cloudy day, too — or you'd end up with stuff that look like dead ants.


Recent acceptances:

• Was thrilled to receive an acceptance note from Envoi that they're accepting three poems: Fallen, Glass and Hush for Issue 150.

This is one of the most gorgeous print journals I've ever had the pleasure of stroking... uh, I meant reading. If you non-aliens out there send stuff now, we can be in the same issue together — the response time remains quick and easy.

Submission sent: 4 March 2008
Reply date: 11 March 2008

• Also received an acceptance form letter from the 34th Parallel editors who are interested in publishing my poem, Time with Frieda in their next issue.

Submission sent: 12 February 2008
Reply date: 16 March 2008

My multiple selves are currently on their hands and knees for —

Ilya Kaminsky's Dancing in Odessa. This is such a gorgeous collection — one of those books that make you stare at the ceiling all night thinking if there's a god, there's my god.

Here's an excerpt from his longish poem, Praise:

A woman asks at night for a story with a happy ending.
I have none. A refugee,

I go home and become a ghost
searching houses I lived in. They say —

the father of my father of his father of his father was a prince
who married a Jewish girl

against the Church's will and his father's will and
the father of this father. Losing all,

eager to lose: the estate, ships,
hiding this ring (his wedding ring), a ring

my father handed to my brother, then took. Handed,
then took, hastily. In a family album

we sit like the mannequins
of school children

whose destruction,
like a lecture is postponed.

Then my mother begins to dance, re-arranging
this dream. Her love

is difficult; loving her is simple as putting raspberries
in my mouth.

On my brother's head: not a single
gray hair, he is singing to his twelve-month-old son.

And my father is singing
to his six-year-old silence.

This is how we live on earth, a flock of sparrows.
The darkness, a magician, finds quarters

behind our ears. We don't know what life is,
who makes it, the reality is thick

with longing. We put it up to our lips
and drink.