I face that eternal decision: do my taxes or write poetry.
How is this even a fair choice? Poetry FTW. Always, forever, amen.
Actually, I am excited to file my taxes this year since the government took an overly excessive chunk of my 401k divorce settlement last year, and I haven’t made enough this year with my patchwork work history to warrant that level of levy, so I will have a nice settlement echo to bank when I finally get all my paperwork filed.
When I finally get all the paperwork sent to me. And I then go to an accountant. Then the Post Office. Somewhere in there leaving with a folder of paperwork to file.
So much paperwork. Not quite as bad as a divorce or mortgage, but close.
Might as well keep myself happy and busy by writing poetry, and selling it for cash.
Once my life is more settled, I have decided that I really need to start using my Goodreads account more effectively. I had started listing classic, everybody-knows books on my Read list, and then I thought: no. I would be oh-so happy if someone wrote a review of one of my books, and the best way to have that happen is to return the favor.
Or, rather, pre-return the favor? Be a friend, to get a friend.
So I struck all those ratings and, now, when I read a peer-written book (most likely romance or erotica) then I will rate and (possibly) review it.
Oh! and I have been thinking of having my 100-poem paperback be not just a simple reprinting of the other five books of poems, sort of like Five Novellas is, but an author’s revisioning of the poems by grouping them according to theme.
This means I will get to write the titles on notecards with a Sharpie and attach them to the wall and then sort them by hand. SQUEEEEEE!
My spectrum rainbow must be burning bright because a chance to do that sounds better than about anything else I can think about right now, other than a really good beer or a really good fuck with someone who loves me and I love/trust him back.
Not that the two are mutually exclusively, of course.
And now I have this song in my head……..
I’ve wandered way off topic. Although, maybe not.
I decided I wanted to write love poems about things that I love other than people, but with the same level of intensity as forbidden sexual attraction.
And I decided I want to change it up a bit style-wise, so I chose the haiku form.
Haikus are tricky. After all the measuring and slicing and dicing and forming that I have been doing with my metered and rhymed poetry, haikus almost feel like cheating.
That’s because you really need a sharp point to stitch a haiku. Everything matters, metaphorically: the needle and the cloth and the thread and the design.
Because it’s like wearing white. Not everyone can pull it off. I can’t pull it off, heaven knows. I am such a messy eater that OTHER people go home with stains on their shirt.
Or, in another analogy, it’s like forming a supergroup of Stevie Ray Vaughan, Elton John, Sam Smith, Marcus Mumford, Sarah Brightman, Idina Menzel, Billie Holliday, Eartha Kitt, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Bob Dylan and then having them play “London Bridge is Falling Down.” It would be insulting.
But I think I did okay. This poem is part of a set that includes cigarette.
my last thought before
sleep envelopes me: when next
my hands will hold you.