So maybe I'm inching back into blogging a little. It's really hot and humid here. I'm tapping these keys clad only in silk boxers and the sheen of man dew. (NB: this is a thought experiment aimed at launching waves of my pheromones onto the internet. Be warned.)

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Ever feel like a Frankenpoet, lurching from laboratory to graveyard, over and over again? Ever get tired of being chased by all those torch carrying villagers?

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Deleuze wrote that "Paradox is the pathos or the passion of philosophy." I think that that's equally true of poetry & therein lies an aspect of my fascination with the ways in which philosophy and poetry follow parallel paths.

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I'm making myself a little crazy writing this poem talk thing for the Avant Writing Symposium at Ohio State next month. I'm making an effort to leave things in which I would normally leave out.

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I celebrated a birthday (number 57) a few days ago. One of my gifts was an Ipod Shuffle (we're routinely late adaptors of technology). Mischa, who was visiting at the time, programmed a favorite CD of mine into the thing. Days later I'm grooving with it and Barb comes up to me and says something. I say "Just a sec, I can't hear you" and take off my glasses instead of the ear buds.

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All confusions are essential, no?

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I'm contemplating a few upcoming publications of my work, after a bit of a dry spell: 2 chapbooks via Geof Huth, and EXPOSURES via Leafe Press. 3 texts which couldn't be more different. All of which are important to me in unique ways.

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Difference. What does that mean for/to you? It's a question that's fundamental to the history of Western thought. It's an Ancient question which doesn't get old.

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