The Mean Reds

I haven't written anything of any substance in months. A few nights ago, I wrote a poem about belonging that described my Great Aunt Mary and my grandmother's ritual of playing solitaire while drying their pin-curls with setting solution under those whole-head hot-as-hell hair dryers, but it didn't do what I wanted it to do, and so it went in the pile of things I need to edit.

I wrote something recently about coal-miners and faith, but it fell short of amazing, and when I write things that have Big Ideas, they have to be amazing or else they just don't have that sparkle. So that went in the pile of things that have good elements that just don't seem to work together. Those things become 2 or more poems eventually, or they just gather intellectual dust.

I need to paint again. Everything is just so big a mess, and I need to get all my stuff de-cluttered so I can have the chapbook release party in the classroom in November. I know it's like "That's not until November," but I kind of see it as "Oh my goodness I only have 54 days!"

I think I've got those Golightly Mean Reds.

Worse than the Blues, If I had her money I'd be richer than she is, $5 for the powder room Mean ole Reds.

Plus, I'm thirsty right now, and that doesn't help my mood.

Now I'm going to get back to working on the chapbooks. And on Plain Spoke. They're all melting into one big pile of publishing at the moment, but I'll sort it out.