Will it make a sound or in its own song be drowned?

I am returned to Boston. The train did nothing remarkable except arrive on time. I read Farah Rose Smith's Of One Pure Will (2019) and the manuscript of a novel by Michael Cisco that I want to exist in print already; it has yaks and Messerschmidt heads. He took this picture of me last night with Herman. Now I am going to bed.

You can't stop us and we're dancing

My poems "And a Sleep Full of Sweet Dreams" and "Uncle Sonya" have been accepted by The Cascadia Subduction Zone. The first is a cranky mythological poem about insomnia that I wrote in a doctor's waiting room; the second riffs on the name Fox uses for me and shewhomust's immediate location of it within the Chekhov canon.

Courtesy of selkie: "Some Lines, On the Occasion of Discovering That One of Donald Trump's Border Plans Was a Moat Filled With Snakes."

Looking for something else entirely, I ran across this photo of members of the original Broadway cast of 1776 with Richard Nixon following a performance at the White House in 1971. The musical is winning on formal wear hands down. William Daniels looks pretty much exactly as I would expect his John Adams to look under the circumstances.

The man sitting two seats down from me on the bus home tonight looked extremely like mid-period Ralph Bellamy, right down to the wave in the hair that no one this century wears anymore, and I don't know what to make of that.