Independent of the eye-stinging secondhand smoke, today has been hot garbage for me, both of my husbands, and the mother of my godchild, which is not how anyone should spend Alan Turing's yahrzeit. Have a ghost poem for him which I had not previously encountered: Linda Bierds, "Evolution." I am forty-one years old, not yet close enough to my birthday to have outlived him, unimaginably closer than when I was sixteen. When Christopher Morcom was my age, he had been dead for twenty-three years.
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Active Entries
- 1: Open up your mouth, but the melody is broken
- 2: Is your heart hiding from your fire?
- 3: Everybody knows the world's gone wrong
- 4: The dusty light, the final hour
- 5: Reading your mind is like foreign TV
- 6: When you turn a solemn promise to a blatant lie
- 7: If one year's back on my shoulder
- 8: Me, I'm a rotten audience before I've had my coffee
- 9: I'm not on my own
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