Tuesday night I was bored. I was so bored I could no longer justify ignoring my unrevised poems any longer. I sat down and read through my Dorothy Gale poems, my Dorothy Eady poems, and my one Joseph Smith poem (yes, that Joseph Smith).
As soon as I wrote my post about not writing, I wrote another Joseph Smith poem, a longer one. I'm writing poems about people who experienced two compelling forms of reality. He seems to fit. Or we seem to fit as many of us now live in his version of reality.
I do not like many of these poems, which is discouraging.
In happy news, it makes me like my forthcoming book manuscript so much more. I have oscillated between liking it and hating it fo several months.
And the tentative publication date: September 2009.