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  • It has been a long, dry year. Writing little, refining less.

    When asked to contribute a poem I took three from last summer and stuck them in a yellow manila and sent them away. I didn’t glance at them, or I would have seen that I was appropriating brand names in nonsense metaphors.

    Sixteen months ago, I audaciously inscribed “In the style of Buddy Wakefield” across a particularly ambitious piece. Then I told my muses to get in line, to wait behind an airport queue of assignments, applications, and jobs, until I could sort out my baggage.

    My muses calmly told me to fuck off and went to inhabit some other denizen. I suppose this is how I ask for forgiveness. I’m holding a pen and making an effort.
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