Surrounded by stacks of paper.

I've wanted poetry not to knuckle down on me, repeating over and over just how goddamn sublime abject and real it is. And yet -- God's Silence is beautiful, maybe the best I've seen from FWright. Coincidentally, I'm willing to reconsider my contempt for the word inevitable, as in The inevitable sequel to a time of radiant pluralisms is a period of we-they conflict.

I stopped receiving Halvard Johnson's occasional e-mail distribution of poems a while back. Tried the Ghost -- admirable, but the 5MB pdfs were crashing my inbox. Can't barely remember to check Poetry Daily, No Tell, The Page. Blogs I have no problem reading -- base metals drive out rare ones. Controversy and contrarianism posing as considered wisdom... who doesn't see through it. Who isn't dead to event and publication spam.

Publicity -- not actually a core strength. There's a show next Wednesday -- does anybody know about it? Nerp. Touring was great; almost all of the hosts did major legwork to get the word out, and great audiences arrived. At home I let this piece fall by the side. We get crowds still somehow, but I hate sending out spam (stopped doing it, actually), and I'm six months behind on posting the YouTube clips.

And what a good show coming up, too. David's one of the last few heroes of my poetry infancy who refuses to phone it in -- beautiful new work every year. And Richard Wirick's postcards were the best work I saw last year. Ah well. Someone'll show, they'll love it, and we'll all buy drink after drink.