Denny sent us the new splash and index pages for Octopus #4. It is the raddest, the fattest, it is the Mayor McCheese if you please, and I know you do (why am I talking like a radio dj circa 1954?). Anyhoo, D is a mad genius, in my opinion. It is very difficult for me not to give you the key to the very lightweight door that hides this web art, but I will resist. Must have patience.

Apparently, my week at the No Tell paid dividends. The Page claims my Telephones II poem was worth a second look. Reb assures me that The Page is big in Australia and New Zealand. I'm pretending that to mean that I'm really big in those places...sigh (me drifting off into a fantasy where I'm surfing, wearing sunglasses, while a beached mob of Aussie reporters waits impatiently to ask me questions about my vacation's itenerary).

I got the new issue of Field a couple of days ago. I've been reading it at the airport where I work. My effort at work is quickly dwindling. I have 3 days left there. There is a girl I work with who baby talks. I learned that if I stop responding to her, she stops talking altogether.

Back to Field: there's nothing too hot in there. I really liked Beckian Fritz Goldberg's poems. She won this year's Field Poetry Prize. I still do enjoy Field, but I'm thinking about not renewing my subscription. I might relocate those funds to a year's worth of Ugly Duckling Presse. They'll send me books and 6x6. And they have the very cool Eastern European Poetry Series. They are in my top ten of presses, even if Matvei Yankelevich won't return my phone calls.