Last night, I dreamed I was at a conference, supposed to do a reading hosted by Marty Williams. A few minutes before the event started, I realized I only had Karaoke Funeral with me, and most of the audience (which, incidentally, included Ira Sadoff and Robert Olen Butler) had already heard those poems a million times. So I went around asking some of my friends--Collin was there, and Jennifer, and Leslie--if they had a copy of my second book on them (in the dream it had already been published), and no one did. Everyone kept saying, "Why don't you just read some of the things you've written recently," whereupon the full reality set in that there were no new poems. Egad.
But I've made lots of bracelets.