I'm still a little bit drunk, forgive me. My favourite part of life and every day is that first hour before I have to do things, when I sit on the floor of my living room with a cup of coffee, chain smoke my lungs away, write emails, read new things, sift through the many un-read google reader items. My cats are always a little bit hyper and over eager in the mornings. I'm always a little bit stuffed up and groggy. My apartment is really fucking amazing. Really. The big window in the living room lets in this gorgeous blue-gray light. My apartment is always very very warm. A t-shirt is sufficient and you still feel cozy. If I've forgotten my medication I'm a little bit dizzy, a little bit tight in the chest. I'm surrounded by little single shot bottles of rye that my good friend Shawn brought over last night before we ventured out for beers and onion rings. I'm not close to many people but the ones I love, I truly love. And there is no shame between us, and no desire to lead a poetic life, only to talk about the pitfalls of analytic philosophy and punk sub-genres.

I'm going to read and review poetry submissions for the journal this morning. If I had to review the prior paragraph I would say "Feels incomplete. What is the point of these statements? Not a lot going on here" and then I would write a "no" underneath that. But I'm not writing poetry and I'm not concerned.


  1. i wonder what journal you're referring to

  2. ha Existere it's print and small and Canadian and I'm a poetry editor.