{ramblings instead of writing & GO BUY "Savage Beauty" now!}

no poems to post or analyze because I am entirely sucked into the world of Edna St. Vincent Millay, whose biography "Savage Beauty" I've been consuming at every possible moment. no good for the writing, but good for thinking about what lasts and how we carve our names into history or our arms or both... more on that as I process.

also, Roger's in Seattle. so the apartment is clean. ish.

the synonymUS jam last night was excellent -- first of all, very community and music-making and multiple conversations in the mini kitchen-slash-hallway about poetry and the like and only one that I had to scamper out of because I refuse to talk about slam strategy on an otherwise artistically fulfilling Sunday evening.

second of all, I'm now psyched for my show with the crew on Wednesday -- particularly to do a four-voice piece with Elana and Abena and me and Scot, and the closing poem with all kinds of musicians throwing down is going to be crazy with a capital R. it's intoxicating, the rockstar minute. I still think Roger and I could have a band. but that's a whole other low-paying career. first, the books. then we can go all Anne Sexton & Her Kind.

twenty-some artists in Ray's little Harlem studio... Mike's Hard Lemonade (why do we love it so?)... smokers making concerted efforts to stand by the far window so we asthmatics could survive... and actual poems. lovely. who needs Greenwich Village, anyway? bohemian-ness and living in close proximity to other artists is so two decades ago. love the train in its seven weekend sections. love it!