Best Poet of 2007

Okay - its a bit silly to declare someone the "best" of any particular year. Artists are continually evolving and producing work that may have its origins in years past.

Plus, this poet has been posting/publishing work for a while now. I just never stumbled upon it. But I wanted to share some of it with you, and also relate my own personal experience with the work.

When I discovered the poetry of Rebecca F. Miller, I was absolutely stunned. Her honesty and commitment to "bleeding on the page" made me feel like a pretender. There is an urgency and authenticity to her writing that makes you sit up in the middle of the night. Or stop everything on a Tuesday afternoon to listen to your own pulse. It is writing that originates in the South, spilled out through the Kentucky backroads and gulleys in a beat-up Ford with traces of meth in the ashtray. Honesty isn't pretty and there are ghosts of things that never get mentioned at the family picnic. However, in spite of all the bumps and bruises, there is a peace and resolution that settles on the reader of these poems. Read closely. This is no Slyvia Plath. Yes, life is tricky. Life can be absurd. But throughout everything is a thirst for life itself.

And my life was made a whole lot richer in 2007 for her writing. Thank you Rebecca.

Here's a quick example :

SLINGING PALE DREAMS

watercoloring in bed
trying to keep the blue from sinking
underneath my sheets


thighs speckled with the rust colored indication
that somehow i've been in this place before


cutting blood from my sleeves
& wondering why i so easily relate
to a framed butterfly


who cut blood from it's wings
before devouring the nail that pinned it.


you are anticipating a call from the mexicans
who taught you how to sling pale dreams
biting your knuckles white & wondering if they'll ask for the money or the goods


you have neither & i
a remote stirring inside my belly


that says this is not real
this is not happening
this is not what i wanted


in the beginning
when we both played with words


until we came
hot, sophisticated & fluttering
underneath sheets


not marred by some
delicate thing.

(C)Rebecca F. Miller

Best Simpsons Line I've Heard Recently....

"God - the invisible giant you turn to when you think you're about to die !"

And it was delivered by Vin Scully*. Suh-weeeet.




*as impersonated by Harry Shearer

Poetry Update

Looks like the kind folks over at Cause and Effect magazine are going to publish a poem of mine early in 2008. I'm not sure of the exact date and details yet, but will pass them along ASAP.

Also - very soon you will be reading about the best poet I have come across in years. This was promised months ago, I know, but good things are worth the wait - trust me.

BLOGSPOT for Poetry-Fiction-Madness-Etc...

Hey Everybody -

In case you thought I was the only creative writer on BLOGSPOT -

(pause for groans, guffaws and Gypsy curses)

I thought I would point out to you a terrific blog that
features a variety of inventive writing.

http://gloomcupboard.blogspot.com/

Poetry that itches and fiction that paces the hallway.
Can you sleep ? Neither can they. The two of you should meet.

RAVENSONG

to
winter farms
and silos

the bells
are singing
high and away

over field
and blank pasture
the ravens return
a soft chorus.

ellen has gone now
gone to seed the grass.


(C)2007DaveDonovan

Popcorn (not a poem-just the truth)

Popcorn eased introductions at Jamestown dinner parties.
Popcorn is a fiber-rich snack that tastes good.
Popcorn and butter could prevent nuclear war.
Popcorn and ketchup could start it.
Popcorn is God (and she doesn't want to argue about it)
Popcorn and the movies.
Popcorn as a mood-enhancer.
Popcorn as the answer to the riddle.
Popcorn sits perfectly still....until needed.
Popcorn. Fuck yeah.

LEAN

didn't that shift in
your chair just now
that change of direction
as you asked and i answered
make you think

or am i over-thinking this
that you and i could build mazes
of future contacts
that might lead back to here

on your elbows
leaning on a single arm
of the chair
your smile with your
hair framing the edges

i think i'm seeing things
or maybe just dreaming them.

(c)2007DaveDonovan



(untitled)

tumble and twist
in elegant turns

the scarlet nights are falling

through stairwells
and dusty backporch curtains
over vinyl shades

in that apartment
the summer you got divorced
i remember

turn and toss
your hair like that again

please.

(c)2007DaveDonovan

and take it away....Bill !

The GPP is proud to announce, in celebration of our 1st anniversary:


The GPP Reader

Selections From The Poets Of The Guerilla Poetics Project


A beast of a compilation, perfect bound, slick glossy cover with a letterpress dust-jacket title band, 144 pages, edited by Ed Kauffman, featuring work from these talented GPP Poets:

• David Barker • justin.barrett • Miles J. Bell • Luis C. Berriozabal • JJ Campbell • Alan Catlin • Leonard J. Cirino • Glenn W. Cooper • Christopher Cunningham • Soheyl Dahi • DAVE DONOVAN • Doug Draime • Nathan Graziano • S.A. Griffin • Christopher Harter • Christopher Kornacki • Richard Krech • Mike Kriesel • Ellaraine Lockie • Adrian Manning • Al Markowitz • Hosho McCreesh • Brian McGettrick • Amanda Oaks • Bob Pajich • Kathleen Paul-Flanagan • Michael Phillips • Sam Pierstorff • C. Allen Rearick • Charles P. Ries • Ross Runfola • William Taylor, Jr. • Don Winter

You can buy one at the store link on Guerillapoetics.org or by contacting me for a mailing address. The price is $15 post paid.

Thanks,
Bill

My First Cat

This is not an actual photo of the first cat our family had, but a remarkable look-alike. Especially in those pale green eyes - the look of a hunter. No bird or squirrel was safe on our block.

His name was Arthur and he fathered LOTS of offspring. Could this be one of his descendants ? I'm going to go ahead and believe...

Happy Labor Day

CUSTOMER SERVICE

its a tightness
in the small of your back
that reminds you
not to kill the customer

the customer is always right

exactly right about
your outdated equipment
short-sighted management
underqualified staffing
ill-prepared strategies
badly-timed promotions
awkward public relations
and odd-smelling restrooms

you can't kill the customer
for being right
and the small of your back
reminds you

eight
hours
a
day.

(c)2007DaveDonovan

Still The King

Our Fortress

Let's Meet Here...

The next time Bush demands more time, patience, and money for his delusional pursuit of revenge against a nation that never wronged us in the first place.

The next time Democratic congressional leaders say one thing and do another.

The next time some analyst/pundit/wanna-be-comic makes a crack about Rep. Dennis Kucinich (D-Ohio) and his big ears, slight physical stature, hopeless presidential aspirations, and - oh yeah - his unwavering courage and consistency of principle.

The next time pollsters remind us that the average American can name more "American Idol" winners than signers of the Declaration of Independence. Or more "Laguna Beach" characters than members of The Supreme Court. Whatever. Same shit - different flies.....

The next time we allow advertising to shorten our attention span and increase our tolerance. TO ANYTHING.

The next time an attractive 20-something celebrity gets arrested and the world stands still. Or the next time the 20th century's finest film director dies and the world doesn't.


Let's make a fortress, shall we ?

A Light Goes Out In Chicago

First thing I hear on the car radio this morning is "Johnny Frigo is dead." And the day only got worse.

Music lost a composer, bassist, violinist, and goodwill ambassador today. He was a classy guy - and inspired myself and all who met and/or played with him. My own chops were never on his level, so I never dared to ask to sit in on any of his numerous gigs around town. Frigo was a master musician and a very gentle soul who ruled the cabaret scene with Joe Zito on piano in the 90's.

But that was merely the 90's. Decades before, he distinguished himself in the Jimmy Dorsey Big Band, and recorded with guitarist Herb Ellis and bassist Ray Brown. Barbra Streisand and Dinah Washington hired him to play on their albums. And on two occasions, he appeared on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, as a solo artist.

I last saw him at the Green Mill, sitting in on a couple numbers with Jackie Allen . He was in his late 80's but still playing beautifully and cracking jokes in between songs. It was apparent why Chico Marx had hired him years earlier for his own touring show-band.

He will be missed.

Songs To Play..........

THINGS

i have the worst dreams
i dream the worst things
a wave of your hand
the turn of your head from a distance

i save the least things
the things-i-need-least-things
the song of your sigh
the dance of your breath in December

they wander and drift through the door
intruders i cannot ignore

then i hear the worst things
your voice in the morning
calling to me
invitations to sleep a little longer

the answers i never could get
the stain that has not lifted yet

but that’s just me
someday i’ll see
the world wakes up
and moves on

i lose the worst things
colors and shadings
the purpose and drive
to fill in a new frame come tomorrow

i want the worst things
bad worse and worst things
filling my head with the false-alarm red of a sunset

they wander and drift out the door
deserters i cannot ignore

but that’s just me
someday i’ll see
the world wakes up
and moves on.

Summer of Change - Summer of Return

I drove north on the Interstate in search of the cicada song. We don't get to hear them in the city and I miss them. Most people think I'm crazy to say that and wish they could trade places. I would if I could. Growing up downstate, the whirring buzz of our once-every-17th-year visitors rang through the trees and provided the soundtrack to those rare summers - the ones that live faintly in memory when you move to bigger, more "important" places.

Chicago is fantastic, but it doesn't keep you awake at night for the right reasons. More bugs - less guns, please.

I decided to check out the future home of my brother's family. By the end of this summer they will have moved to a northern suburb of lovely homes, spacious lawns, and first-rate schools. I was curious to get a feel for the area. Their current neighborhood was changing for the worse - with slipping school standards being the primary concern - and they were headed for greener property values.

As I entered the city limits, I noticed a couple of things. The police station was perhaps the most inviting-looking and non-threatening public building I have ever seen - nicely landscaped with carefully-chosen shrubbery and plentiful parking. It was night time and discreet floodlights lit up the department's name, scripted in "Book Antiqua", posted on sand-colored flagstone. Damn. I wanted a reason to stop in and see if they offered gourmet coffee at the seargent's desk.

The other thing I took note of was the local funeral home. It had a hyphenated name. And those two particular names were the same as an old high school buddy of mine AND the actual name of the high school we attended. Let's call the funeral home "K-S". About 1/4 mile beyond the funeral home, I turned left - off the main strip - to explore the residential area of this town. It was quiet - with a canopy of trees hanging over the gently curving lanes that wound through the neighborhood. Absolutely no 90 degree-angle intersections to be found anywhere. Instead, every crossing-area was like a soft pretzel that might twist you towards NW or NNW or SE or SSW... only the locals knew for sure. I cruised along with my windows down - trying to hear the cicadas. There was only the familiar sound of crickets and external air-conditioning units humming in unison. It was a peaceful campus of lawns and driveways - no cars parked along the curb, but then again, no signs prohibiting it either. A bit further and the surrounding trees grew thicker but still no cicadas. At one point, the road narrowed a bit to accomodate a small creek bridge and I realized that there was actually a jogging/biking path coming out of the woods, on my right. Oh yeah - my nephews are going to love this. As I drove on I realized that all these meandering streets had completely disoriented me. Where the hell was I - and who the hell cares. I was lost in a quiet sidebar of July that can only happen if you let it.

A middle-aged couple sipped wine on their patio.
A Saturday night card game glowed through a picture window.
Two girls walked their Irish Setter along the sidewalk in perfect safety.

That was about all the "action" I saw happening in the area. Beautiful homes and lawns that rolled out to perfect sidewalks under arches of maple. Clear skies with more stars than the city. And a lot less noise. As I was leaving, the radio station I was listening to in the car began a "Todd Rundgren Hour". I suddenly remembered my buddy "K" and how this area was similar to his own neighborhood back home. Back in high school, we spent many a summer night in the quiet splendor of manicured lawns and hushed driveways - smoking cigarettes and chugging bottles of "something/anything". Our acoustic guitars lit up every backyard party we attended and Rundgren was like a silent partner - hovering in the branches of our youth and smiling in stereo.

And here I was - in the soon-to-be-hometown of my nephews. Would they even care about Todd Rundgren at any point in their lives ? Who knows. I doubt it. They will carve out their own summers - their own getaways of music and art and memory. And I will do my share to make sure they hold off on the indulgences that "K" and myself and our friends undertook at that age. Summer is a buzz all its own.

I never did hear the cicadas, but I caught an unexpected echo. As "Real Man" kicked in on the radio, I wheeled out of the subdivision and headed back to the city. Summer is for kids, summer is forever and, at the age of 45, I think I'm the last teenager standing.

4 or 5 Cycles - Maybe 6, If You're Lucky

2007

1990

1973

1956

1939

1922

1905

1888

1871

1854

1837

1820

1803

1786

1769

I'm thrilled that they're back. I love the music they make day and night. They're only above ground for six weeks and have to wait seventeen years underground to get that. And our chances to see them are limited, also. If your first encounter with them was at the age of 5 (and your power of recall is sufficient), then you're only going to have six opportunities - assuming you live to the age of 87. Enjoy their visit. Or to quote a subway graffiti message I saw years ago : "ENJOY YOURSELF. IT'S LATER THAN YOU THINK."

Stick It To The Man (towards the back,firmly into the spine)

The Guerilla Poetics Project is a literary middle finger extended in the direction of mainstream publishing. High-quality broadsides (4.25w 5.50l), printed on an antique letter-press and featuring original poetry, are smuggled into bookstores and placed inside works of great literature to be discovered by the unsuspecting reader.

You can read all about it HERE. And while you are there, look around the rest of the site and be amazed at the power of independent writers and what they really care about : Connecting with readers WITHOUT getting rich or famous. Priorities, people. The key word is priorities.

Enjoy.

THOSE TWO LITTLE WORDS

the wonderful smoke
of her final words

"hopefully soon"...

drifts in circles
this early June afternoon
as I pass the time
collecting copper in
small baskets

the radio breaks in
to announce traffic and weather
as paper is stacked and
counted and stacked again

"hopefully soon"...

swirls about and I
try to remember why I bother
getting out of bed or
tying my shoes

war at center stage
viruses waiting in the wings
and no exits anywhere

but closing my eyes
I can draw those words in belly-deep
the scent of woodfire and
lilac closing around
a lost lake in the hills

"hopefully soon"...

(C)2007DaveDonovan


BAR STAFF

the waitresses
are in sleeves of spring
3/4 length soft and pastel
shades of
rose
yellow
ivory

lighting the room in
tones from an Easter ballet

sherbet swirls of movement
passing over the oak floor
in ribbons of purpose

I settle in at the corner
spying over my paper
and the sun approves.

(C)2007DaveDonovan

National Poetry Day Celebration

This is a few weeks late, but the reading at The Mercury Cafe on 4/28 went very well. There were some terrific artists sharing their work and before you knew it, three hours had flown out the door and down Chicago Avenue never to be seen again. Until next year's celebration. Here were my humble contributions :

CHICAGO

in Chicago
there are souls
who pass for
a sack of pennies
and honeybees
that dance on
the tip of a match

I've seen water rise
to the concrete edge
where men sleep with
dreams tucked
into their boots

safe from the newspaper saviors
who wave at the traffic

in Chicago
we have mercy
on our tongue like rain
strikes the oak and marble
of Grant Park

like snow calms
the fever of LaSalle Street

as the wind jumps
from C to C-sharp
all the way down Ogden Ave.
where geniuses in basements
shatter the light
in twelve different pieces

redemption must be coming
and it should be thick
in the tall grass
under the L-tracks by now

the lost songs of
Maxwell St. could return
roaring over the playgrounds and
bus-stops shaking Amens
from the unforgiven

or in between
the three-flats
where the city warms its hands
over a burning book of proverbs.


STICK-MEN

the stick-men are following
me around again

as the sun erupts over Lake Michigan
in a thousand Nagasaki blossoms
lighting another chance
at a day's worth of disaster

they say give it up
you're a laughingstock in wet clothes
and the kids are throwing rocks

as the breeze sweeps in
on paratrooper boots
lifting scent and memory
from their rightful place

they say you haven't got it
never did and
the serpents are counting the minutes

as music feathers down from a balcony
teasing the heart
with a lover's lost whisper

as bullies rush the playground
kicking over the chessboard
and laughing at the sprawl of
bloody noses and
stained shirts

they say quit right now
you are the pitiful shape
of a blank soul

as an elderly woman
shares her can of tuna
with an alley cat
scared and lonely as she is
grateful for the company

the stick-men say nothing

and I say
FUCK YOU.


THE COUNTER

a six-pack of
12 oz. beers
one pint of tequila
and
a
single
red
tomato

she sets on the counter
before handing a twenty
to the clerk and
searching her purse again

i have the 41 cents
she promises him

and me
and everyone else
watching this pixie-cut
daydream in grey-hooded flannel
and purple nail-polish

in a spin i wonder
where she is going
maybe to her boyfriend's
or a party
or to the end of my imagination

and i think of
what we might do with that tomato

top off a salad
to share from a china plate
found in a thrift store

toss at a picture
of the bastard who broke her heart

set in a windowsill
facing south
absorbing another day's sunlight
for tomorrow's ideas

or balance on my head
for Mexican target practice
like Burroughs did
but this time
the girls win

and maybe i deserve it
because she is twenty years younger
and lovely in a way i can
only admire from the balcony

pixie-cut hair
shamble of cotton and flannel
off the shoulder with
cheap sneakers and
purple nail-polish
what the hell am i thinking

she probably thinks Boz Skaggs
was a porn star

i am so fucked

and this is so doomed
except for the possibility
that she is drinking alone tonight
as I am too.

cheers.

Lunch With Dennis Miller

Yeah - that's right. I've spent many a lunch hour with my favorite comic ever.
Because he is on the radio from Noon-to-2:00 weekdays on 560-AM here in Chicago. Intelligent discussion and terrific anecdotes from a NON-ASSHOLE right-winger.

Bright guy.
Fast Wit.
With a beard like Bukowski's ashtray.

I'm just sayin.............

Virginia Tech Tragedy and Vonnegut

I don't mean to be flippant here. I mean no dis-respect to the families and friends of those lost in yeaterday's massacre on the campus of Virginia Tech University. And most of all, I am not trying to suggest that my previous post was anything other than a cosmic co-incidence. But I have been fuckin' freaked out by the timeliness of that KV quote I posted on Sunday.

"Godammit -you've got to be kind !"

It applies in every situation where madness and senseless violence tries to prevail. In every generation and across all boundries of ethnicity, economics etc..

"Godammit - you've got to be kind !"

And in extreme cases of mental illness such as this one, the kindest thing a person can do for another is TO RECOGNIZE THE SIGNS OF TROUBLE AND FIND HELP. IMMEDIATELY !.

Especially if that person is unwilling to do so for himself.

We ALL need to be aware of the general symptoms that a mentally ill person exhibits.

"GODAMMIT - YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIND !"

...and for those who believe in penance, let me offer 3 "God Bless You's" to balance out the previous "Godammits" - hey I'm a recovering Catholic - what can I say ?

:>)

Quote Of The Week

"Godammit - You've got to be kind !"

-Kurt Vonnegut

Last Saturday In April

For your dining and dancing pleasure :

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH CELEBRATION

**Sat April 28: ChicagoPoetry.com presents its
annual National Poetry Month Celebration at
Mercury Cafe, 1505 W. Chicago Ave, featuring Erika
Mikkalo, Mike Puican, David Gecic, Laurie Slicer,
Lara Unnerstall, LaRaie Zimm, Ruan Wright,
Buddha309, Jose Bono, Larry O. Dean, Ominiphonic,
Sandy Goldsmith, Danette TM Velez, Andrea Change,
Dina Stengel, Pamela Miller, Kevin Blanchard,
Charlotte Hart, Somara Zwick, Dave Donovan,
Charlie Newman, Michael Brownstein, Robert
Lawrence, Margie Mack, Donna Pecore, Kathy Kubik,
Steven Hammond, Jacqueline Harris and more, with
host C. J. Laity, 6 – 9 PM sharp, free.

A Couple More Poems (it's been awhile...)

DRIVING LESSON

so i was riding
along with my cousin
to a party
and we were talking about
when we were kids

how our family cookouts and
get-togethers were so much fun
how our mothers and aunts made the best food
serving fresh lemonade and sandwiches
how our fathers and uncles told the best jokes
and drank cold Hamms beer from
aluminum pop-top cans
with a baseball game
crackling out of a transistor radio
on the picnic table

and I laughed about Uncle so-and-so
and his chain-smoking Marlboro cigarettes
when she said
No - they were Salems and
the reason I remember that
she said
is because one time
he asked me to run to his car and
grab another pack for him
and so I did
but I couldn't find those cigarettes

and I searched and searched
and checked the glove compartment
and under the seat
but didn't see them anywhere and
when I gave up looking
I turned around and there he was

he tried to kiss me

but i slipped away
and ran off as he was trying to say
he was sorry and please don't tell

about 30 seconds passed
as we drove along
before I could think of anything to say

so i said
are you SURE they weren't Marlboros ?


HAPPY BIRTHDAY JOE R.

at that suburban bar you don't want to park in the parking lot
because the suburban cops watch over it and
pull over the patrons sometimes so it's best to
park a couple blocks away in the neighborhood
and that's what I did tonight before walking into the
birthday party of Joe R. and when you walk into
that suburban bar where Joe R. is throwing a party
you are walking into a family celebration and
he wraps you up in a big hug and then walks you around to
the rest of the group and brother, you are in
in like a capo to the Corleones

where tonight Emily was waiting the tables
tall and lean in her hip eyeglasses
that frame her lovely face perfectly as she
rounds the tables picking up emptys and
replacing the ashtrays with the kind of attitude
you wish every waitress had but truth be told
there's no one like Emily and you are
just happy with that

and the party carries on as Lefty the manager
tells Joe R. the next 3 shots are on him and
Joe R. says "I need a hug, then !" and Lefty says
"No thanks" but Joe R. insists "I'm Italian - don't deny me!"
and he walks behind the bar and grabs Lefty who
complies and then says "Get your dago ass back where it belongs!"
and we all laugh and raise our glasses
to the birthday boy and the manager who loves him
and to ourselves who are lucky enough to
be invited to such a party and
smart enough to park a couple blocks away
so the cops have no chance of ruining everything.

Change For The Worse

OK - a few days ago I thought a change of template would be in order. You know, maybe the black background was a little "heavy" ( not to mention difficult to read ) and perhaps a different "feel" would be something to inspire myself to a brand new start, after being idle for so long. Ha ! It turns out you cannot simply switch templates without creating a whole new blog. Or at least I couldn't figure out how to do it. And the harder I tried to figure it out, the more convinced I became that computers were invented just to piss me off. And, of course, I became more convinced that the original template was just fine. I made just a couple posts on that failed-experiment-of-a-blog before deleting it altogether. (Chris - it was nice of you to comment just the same ). I'm not that adaptable to change, I guess. You know, there's a reason I have 9-year old shirts I still wear and have my cupboard stacked with basically the same dishware since I moved into this apartment in 1995. Fuck it. I'm a dinosaur/poet/blogger and someday my fossil record will verify that fact. Onward and into the future.........

Avant-garde Jazz, American Idol, and The Form of No-Form

Just returned from a Tuesday night at Hotti Biscotti where the music is free-form or avant-garde jazz - or simply "improvised music". There is quite an art to experiencing this type of music and it took me a little while to get a grip on it. I used to think that this type of music was self-indulgent and intended for the enjoyment of the players rather than the listeners. Not true. Consider this : In "conventional music" of any style, the musicians play for the audience and basically go through established forms and routines. No matter how brilliant a particular soloist is, he is always backed by the familiar patterns of that genre. Consequently, not a whole lot is required of the audience, because they can sit there and evaluate the music on comfortable, well-known terms. However, in improvised music, everything is brand new - especially to the musicians themselves. So, the audience must get involved and follow closely. Otherwise it is just noise. As listeners, we have to organize sound into patterns - however loose and vague. In regular music, most of this is done for us. But in avant/free-form/improv/blow-your-mind music YOU HAVE TO PARTICIPATE !

Another thing about listening to this music is that you realize there are very few fundamentals to any kind of music in the first place. There is tonality and rhythm. These two units are about all there is to The Form Of Music. In Zen Buddhism, there is a concept called "the form of no-form" and I am always reminded of this philosophical insight when listening to challenging and bold music. All is in the elements and when you scrutinize it closely, there is no form, but "no-form".

Which, improbably leads me to American Idol. No, I'm not going to trash that show. I merely want to point out a humorous link between one of the smallest audiences possible (like improv-jazz) and one of the largest in the world (American Idol). On tomorrow night's show (2/21/07), America and the world will hear a young woman named Leslie Hunt. She is the daughter of Steve Hunt - a Tuesday night regular behind the drum-kit at HB. Yes, the musical torch has been passed from father to daughter and Leslie will attempt to catch the attention of a has-been studio bassist, a smarmy British guy and a chick who's either really crazy, or really smart. Or perhaps, my idea of a perfect woman. No idea what song Leslie will sing, but here's hoping she knocks it out of the park.

Anyway - we wish her well and have our TiVo's set on STUN.

A Difficult Return

OK - I don't know what the hell Blogger is thinking with this "new and improved" version with Google getting involved. I could not for the life of me sign in here, until I signed in on a different blog (on this same site) and THEN came back here and signed in to SSP. I fail to see the logic in this, but what the hell - I'm an artist, not an engineer.

Been a long time, I know. Since November, actually.

A brief re-cap:

October to December - Back trouble that wouldn't go away. Like Vicodin-level back pain. Thank you Doctor for the generous re-fill. It was needed. Much better now. Pain-free and drug-free also.

Then came the holidays and I didn't even think of posting. After that, a nice cold/sinus infection that laid me out for a couple of weeks. Finally over that, too.

Throughout this time period, I considered the fate of SSP. Should I just abandon it ? Or should I launch a second blog that will feature my poetry only, and maintain SSP for other writers and things that I want people to notice. In the end, this seemed like too much work. I will stay with SSP in it's current format. Sometimes I will share a poem, sometimes I will share a link to something cool/weird/idiotic, etc.. Other times I will let loose with a commentary that will leave the real world entirely unaffected but will make me feel better anyway.

And so you have it. Nearly three months off and nothing has changed. Such is life, sometimes.

Two really nice things have happened to me personally, though.

ONE - The baseball team that I have followed and cheered for and fretted over and worried about and prayed for all these years - from childhood to today - finally went all the way into October and WON IT ALL ! And they did it by working through the injuries. They did it despite everyone saying they couldn't. They did it as underdogs. They beat probably the best team in baseball in 2006 (The Detroit Tigers) and it only took them FIVE GAMES. I love my St. Louis Cardinals and I love the example they set by never giving up and by pulling together as a team. The Cardinals ROCK.

TWO - I have discovered one of the best poets I have ever read - an American voice, authentic and real. She is from Kentucky and the images she creates are stunning. I will devote an entire entry just to her, complete with a link to her site. She is remarkable - trust me.

Time to go now. See you sooner than three months from now - I promise.