A is in Chicago this weekend and I am alone. I haven't left the house since Friday's No Name. The house is clean. The papers are graded. The Cornhuskers have been watched. Some new poems of mine have been born. One of my top-fav young poets sent me his new chapbook last week and I read it: Ryan Murphy's Poems for the American Revolution. These poems have an old old soul in a soft new body. I'm in a mid-90's Built-to-Spill/Modest Mouse (Interstate 8) mood. I'm rocking my Shit Happens hat, pearl buttons and new beard. Vacuuming.