I'm not feeling angry today. But I'm not at ease, either.

I've never written a long poem in the traditions of H.D., Pound, Olson, Waldman, Duplessis, or any others. But I'm still reading Iovis.

Out of everything I've read in the past three years, the work that has been the most helpful and intriguing in terms of my own writing has been fiction.

I sound like a broken record, but anything by Jane Bowles, Jean Rhys, or Djuna Barnes is so good it makes my hair stand on end. I'd add Mary Butts, Colette, and Laura Riding's stories to that, and Alejo Carpentier, Peter Matthiessen, and Paul Bowles. And Cydney Chadwick's Flesh and Bone, and any fiction by Susan Smith Nash but especially To the Uzbekistani Solder Who Would Not Save My Life. Dodie Bellamy and KathyAcker are obviously in my list (or on it). I respect Burroughs but can't read him because I'm never prepared for how much he hates me.

Maybe I'm reading fiction because I want my poems to think in terms social interaction and interpersonal psychology and fiction helps me do this. I'm not concerned with history. I mean that I don't begin with history and go towards human interaction, I try to do the opposite. In terms of form, working with both prose and poetry isn't really very new. So, so, so, well, I'll figure out what to do about that when I back into editing mode.