One Hundred and Fiftieth Entry

Wow! I reached a buck fifty! Congrats go out to myself.

Honestly, every poem is a little victory. I keep myself so busy. And aside from work, this is supposed to be what I work on the most, but I'm sure everyone reading this knows how it is.

I've started a new project, because it interests me and, for the time being, I need a project in order to keep myself motivated. It involves a book of new york times headlines that Gina gave me. I just love old timey reporting language. And presidents. One of them appears in my poem. I'm thinking of calling the project "Fit To Print." Is that too much?

Here's my poem:

AND THE TREATY IS NOW ENFORCED

Strike spreading across twelve and a half faces.
Bruising is the first sign of communication.
Wilson to summon me, anxious, sitting on staircase,
well-lit, my feet crunching through plaster on rugs.
Eggs. Eggs is what I keep thinking of, working
through white plaster -- my toes are wiggling
in my boots with much effort. Snug in a blanket
of my making. Still hoping for harmony.

Berger says he will run again. My phone shudders.
Soon he will call me back, crazy, near freezing
in the fog shoulders of a wooded area.
Quit running. The city will continue to effect you.

Still, compromise spirit grows. The stairs are swept.
Ten hundred women and men in black sweatshirts
means we have beaten death and our parents.
We have won. We are all standing together for a while.
Was a missionary leader a hero for saying
what no one listened to? I wake up in my city
to missionaries burning. I wear a missionary shirt
the next day and walk all over town.

The letter came in the evening:
"You're supposed to care about this."