What happens when I get up in the morning and think Today I'm going to write my own stuff?

I end up doing everything else in the world: grading essays; running hither and yon to buy Christmas presents, or mail them; attending the ever popular "go to a meeting" dance (it's a line dance that goes around and around in a circle); visiting a friend's classroom; lunching at the Caf to use up my three "free" hits of the semester; lifting weights; driving Lizzie to swimming, gymnastics, or dance class; picking Lizzie up from the afterschool program or her school newspaper meeting; watching television off the box; watching TV on DVD... Imagine that sentence indeed trailing off into the ether of forever, ad nauseum.

And do I ever write?

No. Most of the time I simply revise. I open the file with the full intention of printing it out and sending it away and. And. There I am, four hours later, ass flat, poems 1-30 in various stages of disarray. It's the same impulse that makes me rearrange the furniture, again and again. What? Am I hoping for the perfect arrangement, the one that will scream God's name?

I just realized something, typing that. The perfect arrangement = death.

Okay. That's enough self motivation for this afternoon. Time to drink wine.