You know: I like how my poetry career is going. By which I mean, I just sit on a mountain and blather at the e-world and continue my turbulent (but perfumed, please!) descent to poetic obscurity by eventually being known as that cheerful crank who writes poems no one can, uh, pin down let alone remember ... I like that, really, because I believe in poetry's evaporation, I mean, evanescence.
Well, that's also to say I'ma kinda sitting here bedazzled by something that just happened ... this unexpected offer, this true honor really ... can't share details yet ... but I think it'll also result in something like a 600-book order for one of my books (a book of my own choosing, but which I haven't chosen yet). I'm having trouble wrapping my mind around it (heck: for some of my books, it takes years to sell 6 books! Then there's this 600 - plus?!). So I'ma just gonna head over to the wine cellar because, whether towards obscurity or not, as a friend's gifted refrigerator magnet proclaims, while