I poured myself a cup of tea and suddenly realized what song I was singing.

Disco Duck.

I have no excuse. I’d try to make up one, perhaps about a brain tumor or an overindulgence in alcohol, but I can’t.

Disco Duck.

I deserve a reward for this. I post things like this just to give the rest of you someone to look down on.

For some reason, my TiVo went out and found a baseball game. From 1995. Cleveland Indians versus the Baltimore Orioles. It was the day after Cal Ripken broke Lou Gehrig’s record, and the Indians were trying to clinch the Central Division and make the playoffs for the first time in, I think, 41 years.

They had a 22 1/2 game lead on the second place Kansas City Royals, who were leading the Wild Card.

All the players looked so young and slim. Albert Belle looked like he’d happily eat your face off. Orel Hershiser was still pitching. Eddie Murray was still hitting. And Manny Alexander pulled a groin muscle.

I remember that season. I didn’t watch it though. I listened to it on the radio with my dad. I developed the ability to parse all the action through clouds of static, to hear Tom Hamilton’s voice though the radio was rooms away and I was dozing. My god, that summer. My god.

I thought we might end up in one of our not-so-uncommon situations where nothing I ordered actually came before Christmas day.

Poor Steve. He’s so much more organized than I am. On the other hand, he gets to have an extended Christmas.

Our biggest mistake was in getting married right before Christmas. I’m always forgetting to get him an anniversary present. But I got him something nice this year. I, you must admit, rock.

I’ve got the world’s stupidest feet. They are larger than most cars. They are tender. They hate sand. I walk on the outside of my feet for no reason.

I think it’s time for piratical peglegs to make a fashion comeback.

A vendor sent a gift of a giant basket of Ghirardelli chocolates to the office.

I will have to wear one of those Sumo wrestler outfits if I’m not careful.

It’s Left Behind: Eternal Forces.

I would like to believe I’m making this up.

Now, go convert or die, you heathen.

Apparently most people are being hampered by the Beta comments. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have switched, but I am a doofus.

I do have it set up to allow anonymous comments, so my apologies and you can lambaste me anonymously.

Where does this mystical idea of a poetic voice come from? Who is promoting it, and why?

I’m tired of the woo woo notion that we are marionettes for the pleasure of some superhuman force.

Poetry is about craft, not channeling.

I’m wanting to get more practice reading and recording other peoples’ poems to their taste. The way I do readings for miPO is left up to my own discretion, generally. I’d like to try reading to fit an author’s notion of how the poem should sound.

I know that in some of my readings, I’m missing the point of the poem, not at all capturing what the poet meant. So few discussions of poetry allow the poet just to say, “No, I really meant this, not that.”

So, if you’d be interested in playing along because you’re bored or interested, or if you want a recording of any of your poems, please let me know.

I’m finding the only way to learn poetry reading is to do poetry reading. I guess it’s always the way.

I started a thread on Gazebo asking people about poetry collaboration, but it didn’t get a lot of interest. I’ve done a small bit of collaborating, and I find it a very interesting experience.

What are your thoughts on collaborating? Have you ever done it? Ever been interested? Would you want to collaborate only with poets who write very similar things in similar ways, or are you a formalist hoping to collaborate with a Language poet?

Gimme your thoughts, ’cause I need ’em. I can’t seem to supply any of my own.