woot! Go, Victor!

Thanks. Strange being asked for something by a predominatly Afro-centric Web site, but then, I always marvel at where these things end up.

I suppose it would have been possible to lean back, to breathe, to look around the room. But what would have been the point? What possible reward could be gained from breaking contact with those sharp black eyes, what if I missed a flash of the bright teeth set in dark gums, or if that lock of hair dropped into his face again without me to witness it?

His hands are articulate, and I try not to touch them, but suddenly we're somewhere else, and I'm reaching out for him, holding, grabbing, trying not to fall away in the dark.

The floor was a long way away, which made me giggle.

It wasn’t the first time I’d smoked pot, but it was the first time it had had any effect. I didn’t think it had this time either, until I was home, in bed, and looked over the edge of the mattress.

I tried to stifle the giggle, since mom and dad were in the room directly below mine. I suppose they might not have heard it, if it hadn’t been for me falling out of bed, still giggling.

(Hang tens Victor for that article) Seems to me poetry's always being declared dead by someone or another, and someone or another's usually wrong.

Deb, if you're still in need of a beta, I'd be happy to take a look at it.

(Hang tens Victor for that article) Seems to me poetry's always being declared dead by someone or another, and someone or another's usually wrong.

I have sooooo little patience for all the hacks who declare the death of poetry, be they nobodies like Bruce Wexler or annoying somebodies like Harold Bloom.

[link]

I've made it among my literary missions to point out just how ridiculous this particular logic is.

Anne, will send.

Victor, I agree. And pronouncements like "this is dead" or "this is the New Wave" is yet another reason I avoid the entire literary discussion deal like the plague. Because, shut UP, people, as long as there are human beings writing, and processing, there's going to be this output.

What Mister Black Beret Guy really means is "I need to justify the ludicrous amounts of money I spent on grad school and oh, yeah, while I'm at it I need to define some sort of 'cultural' gestalt because I feel a desperate need to make my mark on the mass memory and I'm sure as hell not going to do it any other way, damn, what'll work, something, ooooh! POETRY IS DEAD! ALERT THE MEDIA!"

I'll pass on that one. Silliness.

You just made me think of the silliest fic, ever, Deb. I'm too busy to write it, but, speaking of writing, my latest is here. I considered making a Press announcement, but this seemed more fitting. Hope you like it. [link] Edited to fix botched link.

erika! It looks gorgeous. Beaming with pride, since I got to beta the piece, too.

This is true. Thanks, Deb. And thanks to Betsy, who spotted the market for me. I had to dump a lot of stuff I really cared about, but I got to keep the expletives. Fuck, yes.