Last night I dreamt that I plucked out a long, gray hair the diameter of a small sapling with little threadlike branches of hair growing out from the shaft and wondered if I might plant it in the yard and grow a brand-new head or some such thing. Blogger's spellcheck does not like the word "dreamt" nor does it like the word "spellcheck" but I really don't care.
I am hell bent on finishing final selections for the winter issue of bb and for finally getting back to writing some of my own damn stuff too. Poetry Brothel is ONE WEEK AWAY. I have ordered brand-spanking-new steampunk gear and I hope it freaking fits because I am feeling very outsize these days, as if my body has no boundaries and just flows around me like milk. This is probably an illusion, but a disturbing one nonetheless.
I wish I could just wear costumes every day instead of regular clothes.
I am drinking coffee again and this is probably bad. My stomach is going to rot away. I just know it.
New Poet’s Market, and a new house?
11 hours ago