The Woman at Border's Wanted to Know If I Would Require a Gift Receipt...I Did Not

I was trying to think the other night about the last time I actually sat down and wrote something. I really don't know. I re-wrote a story to get it ready to send out...but have not yet looked into sending it out. While I have three other stories (and two sketches) that definitely need work, I have not brought myself to get into it. I scribble down ideas on the Metro but then stop once I realize someone is reading over my shoulder. As uncomfortable as it makes me, I cannot bring myself to stop reading what other people scribble down.

I did make some progress this weekend. Tiny, inconspicuous progress. I finally bought a copy of Poet's Market. Hopefully, forking over cash pursuant to my delusions of grandeur will actually force me to, you know, pursue those delusions and send some of my shit (operative word) out.

I think the problem might have something to do with work. I don't read as much as I should. I don't know why since there are so many books I'd really like to plow through. Right now, I'm tacking Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities. I just couldn't get into Lady Chatterly's Lover (then again, I may pick it up again...I think I was just getting to the good part.) Invisible Cities so far follows a conversation between Marco Polo and Kubai Khan. Polo has been telling Khan about various and sundry cities that, as it turns out, are all varying descriptions on Venice. It's interesting but I feel like I'm missing a lot the first time out.

Why am I reading this? Because I do not know the meaning of "light reading".

What do I do with this poem? If there anything in here worth fixing? I have no idea:

Turkish Army

Silent except for the plastic

footfalls of army boots in snow

he cut throats in Korea

while Marines fumbled with rifles

and gave away their position

to sleeping Chinamen—

I don’t tell him that’s not what

we call them anymore.

Instead, I avoid his stare—

ringing up the shirts he buys

for his wife in Florida who is

Sicilian and will not fly,

he tells me as if the two are related.

His shoes are too white

for him to really be dangerous.

Too new and polished

to be the shoes

of an indiscriminant killer.

The Americans, he tells me,

did not keep ears like his men did

but they did not live either.

I nod but do not see the connection.

If you actually read this, let me know.