For the first time in several years, I've realized I have so little completed work to send out.
Thus: I am currently sending nothing out. I am still generating new work, which is rough and tough, and I keep taking peeks at this other book in my life, this seemingly-finished book that I think needs more editing, revising, reshaping.
Nothing from that collection has been published. And I think only a handful of people have even seen that work.
It is hard thing to know if I have gone too far with it. How much assault can you take. Where is the line between the poignance of misery and the misery of reading bad poetry.
I'm reminded of a poem I loved in the issue of Mid-American Review, the one with Teresa's amazing poems in it. It has a long narrative title and is a short poem. I can't recall it now, here, but maybe I can post it later so you will better understand.
Meanwhile, I'm peeking at the work. I'm asking it, Are you done yet? Because mostly I want you out of my house and out of my life.