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: There's always somebody downstairs
- 2: Wrote a scholar from the island that they kept from me
- 3: A lie you told to the maze I'm in
- 4: But somehow the vital connection is made
- 5: Many arms around the mast as your ship starts cracking
- 6: I do some of my best work in the British Museum
- 7: I made a deal with the devil, but I never got paid
- 8: How do you love? How do you solve the etiquette?
- 9: And I'm sorry that I forgot that binders don't go in the dryer
- 10: Trying my best to arrive
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