There are 53 posts I'm preparing applications for. I wish we could bid on jobs--like, low-ball the competition: "I appreciate the $45K, but I can do this for $38Large. Simple as that." As it stands, I can do it for somewhere in the mid-teens...but my diet of pizza and eggs has to come to end at some point.
In other news,
A lovely gathering of the MFA program, complete with friends and children all over the place. Stood around with my adviser talking motorcycles. Way easier than talking poems.
With all this time (it's like I have a little writers colony all to myself, this apartment with a hammock, percolator, 10 typewriters), I've been reading lots and lots. Feel a little goofy about it, but I'm loving Letters To Wendy's by Joe Wenderoth. It say's "fiction" on the side, but it's clearly a sequence of prose poems. I enjoy them like I enjoy Ada Limón's Lewis writing to Ronald Reagan in This Big Fake World. A sort of charming male desperation that tugs at some loose string dangling around in here somewhere.
Here's a bit from that:
September 19, 1996
Some guy pushing a petition, a meeting, "You don't know me," I said. "I'm an avowed spectator." "Well, just come down and watch," he said. "That's just it, " I said. "You people aren't satisfied watching--you want to be the show, and to make this happen you're willing to give up the only thing in the world of any value: free time." In his mind, I could sense the word "evil" forming.
0 comments:
Post a Comment