Waaa...I want more poems! I want longer poems to come through! Instead I keep writing these fairly short things, and then my good friend Ruth shows me where I can cut the last seven lines, and they end up being miniscule. Microscopic. Ah, Ruth. She's an amazing writer and a very good friend and she's ruthless.

I tried to combat this tendency by writing a long acrostic poem, using the title line as a runner all along the left margin. She cut three-quarters of it and informed me that I had a witty little sixteen-line poem buried in the middle of all that.

Shambhala Sun rejected the essay I sent them, saying it wasn't quite right for them but they'd like to see more of my stuff, and Beloit Poetry Journal rejected the last batch of five poems, also with an encouraging note. I know those notes are a sign I'm on the right track--hell, I knew I was on the right track before the notes even, but it would be nice to get an acceptance plus some cold hard cash right around now.

Meanwhile, I've got the musical to work on, so I shouldn't even be whining about poetry, or publishing, but just immersing myself in the joy and pain of creating new stuff. Thank God the heat broke and big breezes wafter through the bedroom windows all night, blowing the curtains against the shades and making the room feel like a ship at sea. The homemade fireworks were a little less, and I think--I hope--people's supplies of gunpowder and/or their patriotic fervor may be dwindling. Possibly we'll be able to sleep before 2 a.m. tonight...

C is downstairs hammering, fixing a window that got broken during the 4th of July festivities. I had a delicious breakfast of a cold barbecued spare rib and hot coffee. On with it...