I woke up and took a nap again before noon. Somebody's got a case of the Saturdays.
I'm roasting garlic in my oven and revising those prose poems. My whole house smells like rich, buttery garlic. It's going into the lasagne I'll bake tomorrow and eat at work all week.
Today's new prose poem: "Poetry." It mentions Dana Gioia. Maybe it mentions you too. I'm coy that way. I like the play coy even if, really, we both know I'm not playing at all.
Got an inky rejection from a mag today—naming a specific good poem. Good. I thought that one of the weaker ones. It's always nice to get a shot of confidence (liquor) or a vote of one. On a Saturday, either one will suffice.
EDIT: When you pull roasted garlic from the oven, it makes a noise that sounds uncannily like a nest full of baby birds. Little chirps.