dulcetly...notes on a bookish life

I am reading tonight at the Cafe and really don't want to read any of the poems I've written. There are better, more interesting poems that flit around the edges and slip away whenever I reach for them. Or maybe lurk instead of flit. I am restless and behind, as usual on every single thing, but there is at least a stretch of vacation time on the horizon after the 4th. Meanwhile, I am having more anxiety dreams. The other night I dreamt I was fighting zombies, but it was a musical we made up as we went along. My voice had that great acoustic quality that you only find in bathrooms. Last night I dreamt about heights and falling from them. A new friend lives in a little nest high above Michigan Avenue and has the most heavenly view. I might continue seeing him just for the view and the fact that he is nice, plays the guitar well, and doesn't seem like a compulsive liar. I am still slowly making progress on new chapbooks and hope to unveil them on the 1st, but everything is slow, slow, slow, and never enough time and way too many interruptions. Everything is an interruption to something else and I am tired, tired, tired.