searching for treasure

i am inside myself a lot these days
well, most days
okay, every day
i am also
beside myself
with loneliness & isolation
that i think would be relieved
by companionship
but maybe i am one of those people who
even after dreams are achieved
will remain
empty

i’m shopping for a publisher. i think my collection is complete, but i am so tired of proofing & editing, that i cannot stand to read through it even one more time to see what needs to be polished.
i am over on the poets & writers site looking though all of the small presses. i have found a few dozen, but i keep looking because i expect to be rejected multiple times and want to be prepared.
i am tired of looking at publishers.
much like my personal life, i just want someone to walk up my driveway and say, “i am here to take care of all your (publishing) needs.”

alas…my driveway is empty…and in serious need of being re-graveled.

the map painting is one of many treasure maps i have made for different art assignments at uw-madison. fuck me, i love a treasure map.

love in the time of ocd

is it love
or ocd
do i want him
or is it just
that i want to get it
right
have a do-over
fix a wrong
scrub a black mark off
my soul
forgive me, ex-boyfriend
for i have sinned
it might be love
but it is most definitely
ocd
he is my crooked painting
my light switch
maybe left on
he is that itch
that involuntary
twitch
getting over him
getting over it
is my
mount everest
(i’m ready to start
climbing)

busy with the self-analysis, and it felt like an egon schiele moment.

i like how it turned out. this is how i feel. lumpy bumpy and dislocated. hunting for publishers and refreshing myself on writing query letters after a couple of decades of lying low…as i said in yesterday’s post, it all has me feeling fragile. trying to ignore the little voices as they snarl, “who the fuck would publish you?”
grumpy bumpy lumpy me.

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