Got a Poetry Salon Coming Up...

.... and I love the emails I write trying to stir up interest in these things. I write one of these things and I think, "Jesus is satisfied with me."

Salonistas

Harder is gearing up by winding down. He’s getting this creative tension going. His mojo is working but only to shop rules. No overtime. Pressman comes out of Esalen on Sunday tanned, fit and rested, tanned indeed over rather a greater expanse of his body than seems decent in these times, but that’s neither here nor there. Actually, it’s here. It was there, but now it’s here.

Remember: *George Bush is the most brilliant man Harriet Miers has ever known.* It’s like her brain was under permanent house arrest.

I have arranged for Mr. Dr. John Higgins to give us a quick tutorial on digital storytelling and I don’t mean using your fingers to make shadows against the wall. I have got one of my yada yada tales of domestic horror. Wieder says the gloves are coming off. What was he doing. Building a snowman? So far everyone else is keeping their hands close to their vests, and their vests are being moved from one undisclosed location to another, never sleeping in the same place for two nights in a row. I think Matt and Lyle will do the spaghetti eating scene from Lady and the Tramp if they can obtain the rights. Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. I don’t know what Harder is going to do. Velcro poems? Not as precise but nuthin gets pinched? I don’t know: He said.

The rest of you: Tell me now or tell me later. What’s going to be up?