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Saw a ship sailing on the big blue sea
Rabbit, rabbit!
My poem "The Secret Language of Water" has been accepted by Not One of Us. This is the poem I wrote and performed in August as Poet Laureate of NecronomiCon 2019; it takes its name from the abalone-and-gold-wire pendant by Elise Matthesen, which I wore for the occasion. I am very pleased it will have its more permanent home in this black-and-white print 'zine of outsiderness which by now feels paradoxically like a home to me. If you want to send fiction and poetry for their April issue, there's still room.
I think it's neat there was an article in the Globe this fall about ghost signs, but I do feel a little burned not to have rated a mention for my collection. I am a local writer and explorer of my city! The title wasn't all metaphor.
I judged this morning that it was the responsible thing not to attend chorus rehearsal with this cold, so I went back to bed and Autolycus curled up warmly at my back and I dreamed of reading a story printed on the label of a bottle of beer; it ended apocalyptically, with the ghosts of slaughtered whales and other, increasingly less identifiable leviathans passing in endless procession down the road to the sea. The label was red, the text white. I remember just the last half of the last line: "and watched the road burning, which was America."
My poem "The Secret Language of Water" has been accepted by Not One of Us. This is the poem I wrote and performed in August as Poet Laureate of NecronomiCon 2019; it takes its name from the abalone-and-gold-wire pendant by Elise Matthesen, which I wore for the occasion. I am very pleased it will have its more permanent home in this black-and-white print 'zine of outsiderness which by now feels paradoxically like a home to me. If you want to send fiction and poetry for their April issue, there's still room.
I think it's neat there was an article in the Globe this fall about ghost signs, but I do feel a little burned not to have rated a mention for my collection. I am a local writer and explorer of my city! The title wasn't all metaphor.
I judged this morning that it was the responsible thing not to attend chorus rehearsal with this cold, so I went back to bed and Autolycus curled up warmly at my back and I dreamed of reading a story printed on the label of a bottle of beer; it ended apocalyptically, with the ghosts of slaughtered whales and other, increasingly less identifiable leviathans passing in endless procession down the road to the sea. The label was red, the text white. I remember just the last half of the last line: "and watched the road burning, which was America."
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I am so glad you got sleep, though. Also I would like to know whether *mumble mumble* in the story ever *womfle mumble* but I don’t want to breathe too hard.
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I mean, I'm not sure it's a revelation so much as a description.
I am so glad you got sleep, though.
Thank you. I think it was definitely the correct choice.
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I hope you've had at least one of the latter and also that your child has eaten a small musk ox or something.