Actually, there might be.
I just saved “one square foot!” of rainforest for $100.
Maybe there’s an anthill on it. Then it’d be a really good square foot.

I will say that I didn’t pack enough books, and the library on Deck 4 was appalling. You can’t call something the Alexandria Library and not have it fully stocked with decent material.

I slept a lot. Worked on my tan. Wandered around Mexican ports for a couple hours when I could.

But if you’re going on a cruise for work one week, don’t expect to get anything done. Unless you find a cantina somewhere when you dock, you’re stuck with $4.00 a minute internet connection and a desire to throw yourself of the closest balcony.

Hello, home. You’re so strange sometimes.
Please bring back hot shirtless tattooed guy with the eye patch.
He was quiet and aesthetically pleasing.

Tonight I got hit in the face by a girl singing Danny Boy in the off key of F. I wanted to hit her back, but it seemed unprecedented, as she was “in the moment” and flailing her arms. I could have busted out a musical number and socked her right back, but it didn’t seem Christian.

I am not Christian, but she was. She asked me what I would name my children. She asked me how I felt about my father. I smoked more cigarettes than usual, and did not answer her. She had this terrible habit of swaying back and forth when she talked, like a metronome. Or one of those clown dolls you’re supposed to punch.

There was a psych study done (in the 60s?) on children about the influence of those punch dolls. Psychologists were surprised at one girl’s anger and originality at brutalizing the toy, but if that clown doll had been murdering Oh, Danny Boy the way this girl was, no one could have blamed her.

Most of my time is spent revising and editing. It is summer, the fan is broken, and the neighbors outside my window have taken up the xylophone and host a lot of Caribbean themed parties, at which I imagine they work on their limbo.

My headphones are half-broken, and the alley sends up echoes to my bed. It feels like I’m at the party with them, which is nice, because I have deadlines, and am locked into this city until they’re complete.

Round 2 means you’ve got 20 days to complete a manuscript of 40 poems.
I hadn’t exactly written them yet.
In the end, I threw out all but six poems I had in my hard drive.
The rest are all new.

I just sent the manuscript in; there’s a lot of screaming self-doubt as I checked over the 40 and went “oh, no. No. That needs to be tighter, what was I thinking there, and that line? Why didn’t I catch that in edits??” And the big one: did I do too many tell versus show poems?

I’m banning myself from looking at the manuscript until the final decision gets made on the 15^th.
Eight to twelve of us get picked for a book deal, and oh man that part is exciting—because even if I’m not in there with them, these writers are top notch awesome, and I can’t wait to curl up with their books while I work towards next year’s submission.

So that’s what I’ve been up to this month.
Making poetry.

It’s 2AM and I cannot convince Paypal I no longer live in my beautiful downtown apartment.
Next week is called Sobriety. This week isn’t.

My book submission is getting turned in tomorrow.
Tonight was filled with High School reunion celebrations.

More later, I am now drunk dialing a website.

San Diego is not filled with poets, nor are there many outlets for the few who hide under the broad description of “I’m a writer”. And since I’ve got a submission due this evening, I’m going to tell you that it is okay to like poetry. Or hate poetry. Or heavily dislike a certain kind of poetry they fed you in high school, that made you want to shoot your brains out and destroy an entire art form.

And I’m going to leave you with this wonderful piece by Andrea Gibson (who is fantastic, you should check her out).

“ACTIVIST”
Andrea Gibson

In the middle of the Pacific Ocean
there is a mass twice the size of Texas
formed entirely from the trash of plastic.

There is four hundred pound sea turtle
about about to swallow what she thinks
is a jellyfish.

We say jellyfish have no hearts.
We say we do.

Jesus said “Forgive them father
for they do not know what they doing.”

Is that true?
Do we not know what we have done?

Over five million people have died in wars in the Congo
fighting for the minerals that make our cell phones.

A tactic of this war is to rape the women,
then cut off their lips and arms,

and AT&T can still convince me

to reach out and touch someone.

Sorry to the two hundred thousand, thousand souls that didn’t explode in a climax this evening—but the rest of us sure are thrilled that the world won’t end come October.

I figure the time stamp on bad Rapture jokes have another week of life before it is old news.

In other things: I did manage to discover the perfect “Trapped on an Island” food.
The unfortunate part is that most islands don’t have ovens, so my Rosemary Cheese Puffs will just have to stay in San Diego for now.

Other things that have been going on:

Book title, check.
Five weeks of poetry workshop in Long Beach, check.
Way too much writing, check.
Procrastination, check, check, check.

Me: If your vagina were a flower, what would it be? I’m actually asking this question.
Her: What?!
Me: I read this piece today about finding your inner flora. It was retarded.
We both yelled “Venus Fly Trap!” at the same time, and I had to cover my face with a Moroccan throw pillow before I fell off the bed laughing.
Me: They’re the only aggressive enough plants.
Her: I’m going to puke burrito (laughing hysterically); maybe aloe.
Me: Why, because they’re spiky on the outside, soft on the inside?
Her: No! They have soothing properties, healing qualities.
Me: I’m writing a vagina piece when I get home.
Her: Everyone writer needs one. Painters do it all the time.

I blame this on the honey incident from the other night, which I told her had been “very thorough.”
Her: Women who say things like that get vacuums for Christmas.
Me: I could use a new vacuum.

We spent a half an hour trying to figure out how many times we’d been to our secret sushi spot on Sunset. Tried to figure out why we’d been in LA that many times together, minus the incident where we picked up the Lebanese and Jamaican men on the freeway and they bought us breakfast.
This was one of the better nights we’ve had together in a long time.

It lasted until morning, when the phone calls between our houses sounded like all of the angst that comes from women who love Ovid and Euripides.
But that night was completely worth it.

Tonight I am accidentally eavesdropping on Poker Night in the living room.
I’ve learned something from living with men: the conversations between women are frighteningly similar.
Though so far I haven’t heard them ask each other what kind of fruit they’d describe their balls to be.
I’m waiting, and then I’ll hit my speed-dial and yell “they said plums!!” into the receiver.

Ah, yes, the ability to drink decent men under a table—courtesy of my emotional baggage.
There’s a piece in there somewhere, I’ll have to flush it out tomorrow, though I don’t particularly want to take my laptop to Mexico with me.

Yesterday I killed Beethoven and elected Hitler to run the world. It was a silly questionnaire, but given the facts listed I allowed myself to be swayed by a decorated war hero who didn’t drink, and maybe recommended that the women who already had eight disabled children and syphilis should consider an abortion.

I should have gone with the guy who slept until noon, smoked opium in college and drank whiskey every night (Winston Churchill) or the one with two mistresses, consulted astrologists and had 8 to 10 martinis a day (Teddy Roosevelt). The world would have slept better.
Instead I chose Hitler.
I’m not the only one.

On this note, if Teddy can have 8 to 10 martinis a day and still make the history books, it probably isn’t a terrible idea for me to choose vodka in an evening and still try to wake up early.
The only problem: going to the bar is like walking into an emotional war zone complete with exploding expletives.

While Teddy had two mistresses, I often just feel like I am one.
I’d like that to be past-tense.

In other news, trying to make healthy life decisions is the equivalent to convincing yourself to go jogging in a heat wave, mid-day. Or at least it is for me. I can’t even convince myself to go jogging, ever.