What's in your fist? What's in your head? What's in your eyes? What's in your bed?

I slept almost nine hours last night. The night before that, almost eight. Following a week of staggering exhaustion, it feels somewhat miraculous. Then of course I spent almost all of today out of the house and away from my computer, therefore have written nothing on any of the topics I was holding off until I had more brain for.

My poems "A Death of Hippolytos" and "The Other Lives" are now available in the latest issue of The Cascadia Subduction Zone. The first was a consequence of Jules Dassin's Phaedra (1962); the second was written for rose_lemberg after a discussion of different reactions to Ursula K. Le Guin's The Left Hand of Darkness (1969). I am delighted that they appear alongside a poem of gwynnega's about Una O'Connor and an article in praise of Elisabeth Sanxay Holding.

Speaking of, I am really enjoying these collected novels of Ross Macdonald. I didn't know until I saw his non-pseudonymous last name that he was married to Margaret Millar, whom I already knew I found interesting. It's just as well that I have set aside an entire set of shelves for pulp, noir, and suspense fiction. I don't foresee this interest diminishing any time soon.

They might give her bad dreams

As a kind of postscript to the previous: I was just reminded that since the latest issue of The Cascadia Subduction Zone has become available, the previous issue is now free to read online. As well as fantastic work by Gwynne Garfinkle and Neile Graham, it contains my poem "Men Who Aren't Crazy," written for Dwight Frye, Helen Chandler, and Tod Browning's Dracula (1931). I will never cease to be entertained that it was accepted just in time for Frye's hundred-and-seventeenth birthday.