this is where the selling of poems would do me some good. do i see that as a viable option? no. not really. because i don't want to line my children up and auction them off (and people say,
don't think of it that way. you pay the grocer to bring food so you can ... yada yada yada ...i left the conversation long ago, especially when i get lectures on the profitability of art).
that is not art, that can so easily and cheaply be sold. i have let some books go for a price, made back my initial print run, which i think, wise.
this second print run, i have holed up for those readings i will be doing in the near future. they will pay for themselves in time to come. but at the moment. they are just waiting.
as am i.
and this new book, i've had thoughts of selling it, bits and pieces here and there. but again, it sounds so mercenary. hacking one's soul to bits for sale at market.
i just cannot see it any other way. as many people tell me i should sell, i can't bring myself to do it.
and so, it is no surprise then, that i sit here now contemplating the pennies i will have to conjure to take this class.
i'm tired of it being about that. i look forward to the day it won't be. i'm not sure it will ever be easier, but we all make choices. we all have reasons for doing what we do.
and i believe if i am to take this class, i will not be afraid to work hard to earn the money to pay for the class. in fact, if it is what i am supposed to be doing, the reward will far surpass any monetary drain.
i just hate money issues. i hate dealing with them. i hate thinking about them.
and i've been thinking about the whole master's program thing and wondering if i need to do it or not.
i just don't know. if i'm doing it for ego, i don't need to do it. if i'm doing it because i must. there's no arguing with that. i just don't know that i'm not going to be doing it for ego. and that is no way to come into a program. maybe i need a break after this degree to sort it out. some time never hurt.
i have much to do, and must be about it.
that which is mine will come to me. i believe this.
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The russet house is silent.
My friends can’t hear me yet.
The flicker who lives in the tree at the field’s edge
Pecks once and is still for a long time.
I stand still in the late afternoon.
My face is turned away from the sun.
A horse grazes in my long shadow.
I slept a few history’s ago,
I am growing old.
A bird cries in a barren elder tree.
I am sick
Of it, and I go on,
Living alone, alone,
Past the sunrise’s,
Caught riddled in the blinks of lash.
The moon spills the inhuman fire
Of jewels
Into my hands.
Dead riches, dead hands, the moon
Darkens,
And I am lost in the beautiful ruins
Of my once was.
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