two days down

My sea legs return. A day of migraine and a day of sickly exhaustion. The crest and ebb of rigor and collapse, it seems me pattern. All too much.

Feeling better and cooped finds me cooking, something that has been revived since leaving a cramped space for counter space. Tonight alone I made a chili, dressed a chicken, and dry rubbed some ribs. I'll make the mop for the ribs tomorrow. All this means the mojo has returned.

I need to answer emails, sorry for that. Urine my thoughts.

F&F continues to fly out the door. I've included extras for all you patient saints that keep me afloat and who buy this necessary work.

Here's an excerpt from a piece that I'm writing that makes use of longer compositional units:

Dozens of other form the wall worn fish belly in a sweater at the tugged lawn movies
as long as one has the elves' odyssey a starry rick lit ground would
work after all the done pit stop coaxes a
could full smile
from marked down albums in a passing gesture to which the glove's attached intuition

It is the same piece that prompted a listener to say, "the weed in Wendell must be pretty good." What's that got to do with the poem?

Pedro done for the season! Jordan just about had me convinced...maybe still. I love Pedro, this isn't good. Anybody but the Yanks. I don't want to see Johnny and Jeter...speaking of which how can Jeter win a gold glove when he's got the range of a Perdue chicken? Don't get me started, I'm just bitter.

& for echoes. String of Small Machines is magnificent. Really terrific. These folks keep me eager for each publication. I'm glossing, but you should contact them about each and every publication and read them immediately. You'll be plussed.


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