Am I thinkable in the USSR?
My poem "A Bulgakov Headache" has been accepted by Stone Telling. It was inspired by and partly written during a migraine I had in February—I'd heard
rose_lemberg refer to them once as "Bulgakov headaches," which only made sense. I class it among the ghost poems, of which I really need to write a final one so I can send the collection somewhere. I need to sleep enough first. Also, irony, stop having this headache.
Current music courtesy of Bogi Takács, who also provides a translation.
My brother was twenty-eight today. My parents now have a fire pit in their back yard. We set up chairs after dinner and watched bats flutter like barnstormers against the water-blue sky.
Current music courtesy of Bogi Takács, who also provides a translation.
My brother was twenty-eight today. My parents now have a fire pit in their back yard. We set up chairs after dinner and watched bats flutter like barnstormers against the water-blue sky.

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I wish you sleep and an un-ironical (or ironical, I suppose, as there's no reason to be particular in these things*) cessation of the ironic headache.
Happy birthday to your brother! And hurrah for bats!
*All that matters to me, O relevant powers, is that my friend who writes such poetry get the relief she deserves.
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Thank you!
And hurrah for bats!
I really do like them. I think I was lucky as a child; they were never presented to me as weird or scary or "dark." I thought little brown bats were lovely. I thought flying foxes were badass. The existence of vampire bats was just great. The babies are cute; the adults are fascinating. And there is nothing not to like about echolocation. Show me a bat and I'll show you something way better than citronella.
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No! I think that's wonderful. How did she acquire a tame bat?
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