AFTER K

Well. You know you're living in a "post-Katrina" world when you receive the September issue of Poetry and a Christmas card on January 29th.

or when you point out a loose brick that you think needs mortar caul and part of the wall comes off in your hand. (This sounded just like a tomb opening in a blockbuster movie.)

or when you barter with the contractor--floor sweeping in exchange for a lesson from the expert caulker

or when it doesn't bother you to sit down for dinner when the carpenter is trimming out a window right behind the table where you eat.

or when you finally feel comfortable saying "I'm sorry--is that the 'I don't want to do it price?"

or you find you are still raking tree debris out of the yard. And the attic.

Cahunas

I am having proprietary issues with my poems. Twice in the last week I have had editors take ownership in ways I have felt were inappropriate, the most grevious example being the editor of a regional glossy rejecting my submission to said glossy and the taking the liberty to 'accept' one of the poems for his literary journal on the stationary of said glossy. I think I actually screamed out WHAT THE FUCK in the Post Office. But it's a little poem, and I don't want to alienate myself from said magazine, so what do I do? What a kick in the teeth.

Down to Earth

I'm back, but grumpy, and not with much to say. Carpenters were in the house today. Lots of dusting to be done. Maybe I'll have something interesting to say on Monday.