Does this mean you don’t trust me anymore?

They interviewed me

About my editorial work in The Review Review.

Here is a gratuitous image of the new issue, because I am in love with it and I sleep with it and I carry it around with me everywhere:

I have been working on this essay about Mackerel’s cancer all afternoon and my heart is ACHING. I need a break.

Oh my, I think that was my first full night of sleep.

I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead

Well, my girlfriends wouldn’t let me just go as “cleavage” for halloween. They slapped some wings and some facepaint on me and made me a butterfly. We wondered aloud, “what would it be like if there was some stranger we might actually MEET at this party as opposed to all our best friends?” and then I thought of the line from the Tuscaloosa ebook, the town with a thousand women you want to sleep with and a thousand men you don’t. Then while we were sharing apple cider and bourbon my fiction editor said, “Here’s to the finest two issues of BWR I have ever seen,” and we toasted and my heart exploded into a million tiny pieces of glitter, so Happy Halloween.

So I guess I am just going as “boobs” for Halloween.

How about I’ll be nothing?

I wonder if I can get away with going to tonight’s Halloween party as “showered.”

I can watch the sunset

Letter in November

Love, the world
suddenly turns, turns color. The streetlight
splits through the rat’s tail
pods of the laburnum at nine in the morning.
It is the Arctic,

This little black
circle, with its tawn silk grasses – babies hair.
There is a green in the air,
soft, delectable.
It cushions me lovingly.

I am flushed and warm.
I think I may be enormous,
I am so stupidly happy,
my Wellingtons
squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.

This is my property.
Two times a day
I pace it, sniffing
the barbarous holly with its viridian
scallops, pure iron,

and the wall of the odd corpses.
I love them.
I love them like history.
The apples are golden,
imagine it —-

my seventy trees
holding their gold-ruddy balls
in a thick gray death-soup,
their million
gold leaves metal and breathless.

O love, O celibate.
Nobody but me
walks the waist high wet.
The irreplaceable
golds bleed and deepen, the mouths of Thermopylae.

All the work is internal. Don’t push. Be kind to yourself and others. Stay clear of entanglements. Don’t sleep with people you don’t know: your body may want to, but your psyche is too vulnerable. Slow down. Don’t expect people to change and get mad or shocked when they don’t. Be self-centered in the best way.