a thousand apologies! we survived New Hampshire and the Subway olive tyrant, hecklers at Joe's Pub in NYC, and had a Real World moment here in South Carolina, and I have not had time to update you on any of it, the ephemeral plural you who perhaps reads this thing.

I will update soon, I promise. full stories. I started reading our old Morrigan road journals, and realized how much I need to document this tour.

So meanwhile, go to www.themorrigan.com and click on "trip and tell" for far more bizarre and fascinating and hilarious entries than those posted here. We have a show and then a Friendster reception (happy hour with voter registration) tomorrow, and then early Wednesday we're off to Florida. It's going to be a crazy week, and now I have to go to rehearsal. Maybe today I'll actually leave the hotel.

oh, here's a poem. as always, feedback is welcome/invited:

St. Joan

I love that the miracles were ordinary, really,
leading exhausted battalions into and out of
impossible fights made not so by faith, a girl
on a horse at the batttlehead of men afraid,
as we all are, to die, wanting to turn back
(reasonable, fight or flight,) turning back,
many of them, in spite of the saint, the banner,
France, and she, drunk on a god with teeth,
insisting her loose handful of men an army
of 5,000, taking a city – several, most
of a country – before betrayal (of course),
before prison still in men's clothing, its laces
and ties a deterrent to fast-handed guards
with saint on their breath / before inquisition
and trickery, the dress given and stolen, girl
in a cell, male guards and men's clothes
returned, laces and ties and declaration: Joan
the lapsed heretic, guilty of cross-dressing
(the church, of course, forbids it) and fire
at the stake, the dress (at last) catching, skin
blistering, flammable / burn, Joan / your God's
pocketful of miracles were never for you.