Dear sweet gods above it is a lovely day outside. Clear enough to see into space. Temperatures in the 80s--so they wear those cute, asymmetrical skirts and lace gloves. The trees are turning the colors of a late autumn fire. All the more lovely because I'm locked inside a fucking box in a series of fucking boxes lining the inner hallway and thus removed from the outside by two (!) other fucking boxes. As far as I know, it's mid-70s, overcast and humming outside.
On the other hand, I like my class. Last night, they were entirely cranked up about this poem (for the link, the poet is reading. . . and it's NSFW, so cover your boss's ears). Did we talk about sex? Yes, we talked about sex. And did they do so appropriately? Yes, they did. And hilariously. Poems they also approved of: "My Papa's Waltz," "Men at My Father's Funeral," and "Kerosene" (by Rachel Zucker. I couldn't find it floating is cyberspace).
Soon, I will have new drafts of my own poems and I'll post them.
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