Just sent my last email blast. Why do we call it blast when unless everyone else has a great program that goes gush I am cutting and pasting little pods of names into rectangles and going blam blam blam more like pushing a lot of letters into a slot. When I peek at my incoming mail I see all those dead ones. Server no long has this address or delivery status notification delivery has failed. So it’s better not to look at your incoming mail till it’s over. Today the opera singer, Julie, got sick. So I was scrambling through old mails looking for singers from the opera I worked on several years ago. And I realized that someone amazing whose show just ended was probably planning to come and maybe he would rather be in it and he would. John Kelly said yes so rather than a soprano I have a mezzo and a man rather than a woman but a very special man rather than a very special woman so it’s all okay. I’m not even going to say that much about the kids today except that I very much want them both to come. Leslie Heredia and Arturo Campos. They are the kids. Every now and then I get a message from a poet and I think oh no will a poet call in sick now. But no it’s a poet who sent out a very handsome version of my first email blast and he’s checking in to see if it’s okay that he sent out one. I thank him. Everything I hear from everybody is okay, the poets are on and are walking boldly into the silence of tomorrow night with no difficulty. No one is afraid of the sound not sounding at all. Everyone is planning to come. I think we are a simple and unusual people. That’s a fact about who the tribe of the poets are. Though I’m assuming there will be much disagreement about that. What this simplicity is, or what the unusualness is all about. But it’s a kind of show business and I’m endlessly grateful though it hasn’t happened yet that the poets just show up.
the sand stretches to forever,
Posted By: duane sosseur on July 1, 2009 at 7:40 amit almost seems to glide
past trees and seas most everywhere,
and I don’t care why
it’s not a road and there is no end,
at least not one in sight
so what you see is what will be
in the silence of twilight
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