Welcome To My Bed

On fire.

Before a dinner of turkey meatballs, egg noodles, and gravy (mmmmm), I assembled and bound the first copy of my third chapbook in so many days. I know, this is non-sensical. No one will ever buy such things. No one wants to read me. I guess I can make excuses and say that I have at least 5 chapbooks worth of material on my hard drive and at least another 3 floating around in journals that are either sitting on the shelf in my room here or my room in New Jersey. But really, this was just a long time coming.

This one is called "Name Without a Place" and has mostly stuff I wrote recently (unlike the other two, which are essentially comprised of the oldies but goodies of my library), including pieces that have not yet seen the light of day, "Sleeping With Tyler Durden" & "Tug-o-War", along with freshly revised things that have only been heard by people on campus here. My friend Matchstick told me he wanted one, but that he only had a dollar. I told him we could work out a barter of some sort. I am up for that with anybody. I plan on trading books with my friends, for obvious reasons. (If it's not so obvious: we are all broke college students, most of us poets who don't get features just yet and if we do they are infrequent, and therefore hawking merch is slightly difficult.) But beyond that, a couple people in my fiction workshop told me that I better bring copies the next time we meet. I feel flattered. Excited. It's so official to be able to hold a book of my own work in my hands, even if it is only held together with staples.

That being said, I really need to give up this bookmaking to Duplications, because I think my printer might kill me in my sleep if I keep imposing my insanity upon it like this.