John just walked to the market. It's cold and clammy and wet—and I just didn't feel up to it. I did weed today and plant two red Mona Lisa anemones almost past their prime and clean the garage gutter and deal with this and that around the yard. So I took a nap and then read/skimmed another book of poetry, this one by a prof at UC Riverside, a Nigerian who was persecuted and imprisoned for his work before coming somehow to have asylum in the US. I'm slowly going through books on my shelves.
It was good to stay home, regroup. But I do find when I read poetry I often feel dumb. Like I don't get why something is considered a poem, and considered good, and why (in this guy's case) the prestigious press Copper Canyon publishes him. Maybe because of his history/backstory. They are all the time looking for a hook into some story to tell about the author. It's all about the marketing, stupid.
Today's big excitement really was stumbling on the bread factory. Conveyor belts assembly lines, who knew? All I can hear is Nicolas Cage in "Moonstruck" in my head...What is life? They say bread is life...
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