Thanks.

I once was a poet. I realized that I would live the short, tragic life of many poets, via starvation, so I switched, but not before a New Yorker editor observed, "that (I'm) a disturbing writer, all the more to (my) credit." I love that descriptor: "disturbing"

Yep, it's apt.

And I love that you two think I'm funny, for I'm cyberfond of both of you and I do write humor, among other things, but no more poems: it's all paying prose nowadays.

However, if one of my books sell well, I might return to poetry. I sure miss it.

Like a lot of writers, I come here to avoid my work. I wonder where Salon writers go to avoid their work.

Speaking of disturbing, I disturbed one of the trolls yesterday with "cuddling with Jesus," but there are C & W songs and a "footsteps in the sand" poem that recall puppy love. Who walks on a beach, side by side? Lovers. So, of all the possible settings, why would an alleged believer pick the beach and limit it to a twosome in their fantasy of meeting Jesus? You see, I'm not disturbing. It's the world that's disturbing. Like Harry, I don't give 'em Hell. I just observe the truth and folks think it's Hell.

Mwaaah!

I think it worked.

You have a fine mind and a good heart.

And I'm sounding like a concern troll. So, I concede.

But I didn't write poety like yours. I'm twisted. I wrote poetry about unraveling mothers and such things. See:

At Christmas, my sister passed them to me.

They came like contraband slapped into my tourist hand at Tunis,

an unclean misdelivery before

the Godlike sunglasses of the soldiers.

One clings, in Tunis and at Christmas—reflexively,

but I knew no way by words to make mother’s pearls mine.

My constriction bore me a barenecked holiday.

Other than the pearls,

mother’s jewelry was junk.

My sister and I could use her swollen jewels

and Bakelite bracelets to play princesses with permission,

but the pearls took a second permission.

“Be careful,” mother would caution, “they’re your grandmother’s pearls.”

We liked the warning.

It promoted our disconnected play to rehearsal, serious and scripted,

for the days when we would wear important things ‘round our necks.

And we, as common children, desired the firm edge that was near to ready.

Near to real.

The pearls were real, are real.

Mother’s cold, unraveling body is not.

It cannot speak to her fierce, mercurial desires.

My sister and I talk and talk,

spinning syllables like mad spiders,

a tacky tangle of words

that muffle mortality’s buzz

and I wrapped my cobalt, silk scarf ‘round Mother’s pearls

and wonder when my daughter will realize them

in their blue night.

So, the truth makes you blush, eh? ;-)

They don't have a house, but hey, hey, hey, they have a calf-sized tv.

In my half a century, I bought one tv. One VCR. My DVD player was given to me. I've never bought a new fridge or stove. I am a capitalist's nightmare.

...Glenn Greenwald.

I would take Mr. Greenwald's argument one step further. Mr. McCain is an adulterer by his book, the Bible. Cindy is still his mistress. His first wife is his only wife. So says the Bible. The Bible also says that Mr. McCain is likely headed for Hell, due to his wealth and just never you mind all those little arguments for wealth that those little-hearted pastors make who live in mansions. The Bible says that Jesus is the way. Mr. McCain, in his seven houses, lives a long ways from Jesus.

I also laid two patios this summer, took two wilderness trips, and redid a bathroom, replacing the toilet, sink. and lights. If you swing a sledge hammer and rappel off underground cliffs, you don't worry about whether it's demeaning to bake cupcakes. It's not. It's delicious.

My point is that one must bear the primary burden of feminism. as oneself must always bear the primary responsibility of desired change. It's great that Ms. Clark-Flory's boyfriend prepares her dinner, but is Ms. Clark-Flory prepared to fix a leaking pipe? Change the shocks on her car? Reshingle a roof?

We can best manage our own behavior. If we choose to behave differently, to undertake those things that men have traditionally done, to a degree, we compel change in others.