Category: This; And also that

I’ll be reading a few poems this Thursday night at the West’s Oldest Independent Bookseller (aka, Books Inc, Alameda) at 7:30 pm along with Jannie Dresser, Julia Park Tracey, and some guy named Don. I’m not sure whether we’ll be reading in sequence or simultaneously, but that’s the drama, right? Bay Area folks, of course we’d love to see ya there.

everyone wants
me to ashamed
of my
relationship with kale.
Maybe it’s because it’s
considered to be
closer to wild cabbage than
most domesticated forms?
People need to
get
over that.

I’m delighted to share the news that the “Conversations about Creativity” interviews on this site have moved over to their entirely new digs at about-creativity.com.
A post on the about-creativity.com blog gives a tour of the major changes we’ve made, but the quick version is: (1) interviews are now organized and presented in a way that should be much easier to browse through — content burbles up, I say, literally burbles up through vents and other hot spots! (2) We’ve created a couple of all-new areas where you can let folks know what you’re working on and share what works for you.
When you get a chance, please drop by the new site and chime in!
In related news, now that the site is up, new interviews will be following shortly, starting with a conversation with Chris Baty of NaNoWriMo (Nation Novel Writing Month), due to be posted next week.
-Cecil

The Novocaine wearing off
felt suspiciously like morning fog as it burns away.
Made him wonder if Novocaine is in fact
constructed from morning fog.
Or perhaps that was just
the Novocaine talking?
Puffs of cool fog.

what it means that
my local coffee shop was
so impressed I
paid for this
coffee with cash.
“Look at you!”
the proprietress
said.

says my son
doesn't have an adult tooth
under one of his baby teeth.
He's got a baby foot.
That's weird, right?

The joy of
owning your own
gumball machine
is that you never feel
cheated when a
gumball doesn’t fall.
Also:
the gumballs.

he said, shadows
dancing over their heads
like bones,
throwing another
pile of metal in the fireplace
to use later as
warmers,
pressing refresh
on the numbers page
of his mobile device,
“if you listen closely
you can literally
hear
the economy
slowing down.”

In Times Square, it’s
twenty minutes
past midnight,
there’s a broken champagne
bottle at our feet,
slipped loose
from a pal’s
whoops.
Garbage floats by like kids
in a Halloween parade. Cops
clip-clop past on horseback, keeping
elevated sight lines secure.
And that’s about it.
The crowd’s gone.
Seeped through grating
down to the rumble.
Cold streets left to
we scattered few
post-apocalyptic
topsiders.

He ate
too many oysters
there’s a barbecued
pearl
forming
somewhere.