In case I haven’t mentioned lately, I compile all the reviews of books and chapbooks people have expressed on what I’ve been lucky enough to have published and read.
I know finding poetry can be hard. I’ve stockpiled a couple thousand titles of it yet in the season of spring titles releasing I feel woe-be-gotten that I can’t buy loads. Nor will my library. They keep ejecting titles of the already scant shelves of a few dozen. Even T.S. Eliot, boom, outta here. Even history of Black writers. Gone. So frustrating.
But at least I thrifted and got back Jeeves and Wooster from the BBC series. I once donated it to the library so more could see it, but it was immediately turfed to the free pile and gone, instead of added to the collection, while I was being reminded by librarian over my protests that a library is not an archive. It is an active collection based on what appeals to people. And right now that means French novels and teen graphic novels it seems. Even cookbooks go. Man, what a hard hard room.
And in the land of composition today, a fortuitous set of words that suggest a relationship. Lucky Fancy Thigh Zones. Take that as a prompt. I did.
