I'm feeling very literary this week. So far. I understand that it's only Tuesday, but let me bask in my illusion for a moment.
M of Dozens of Starlings Packaged as Snakx for Carnivorous Plantz dropped by to talk poetry. We again forcused on revision and our strategies with same. We agreed that fake mustaches never work. And we recorded about forty minutes of commentary and conversation. A project will work its way out of this, but for now we're just having a good time.
I also chatted with my dear friend R. For four hours. It's like we're teenagers or something. She's in the money-making side of literature, and we're frequently amazed by the practices of each other's lives. "You do what?" is a frequent question. She keeps me honest in thinking about poetry by basically reminding me (not out loud; this is a point I come to simply by the contrasts of our lives) that any arguments about the "School of Quietude" v. "Post/Avant Poetics" is damned close to meaningless in any context outside academic poetics. Which is another way of saying that it's meaningless. So write your poems. Revise. Rejoice.
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