Yesterday evening, I got called into jury duty. Santa Barbara is a small pool, so you can get summoned quite often.
Maybe I'm not alone, but I haven't been exactly what you might call patriotic lately. The word itself has been taken hostage by villains. We've let every baddie flying a Don't Tread On Me flag co-opt what being "patriotic" means. But I'm no fool, I know what it means. I grew up pledging allegiance to not only the American flag, but to the Christian flag and the Bible. I was indoctrinated early. And because I am what my parents made me, the words of Jesus have been carved into my heart with a spoon. And guess what, I don't see anything in this country reflecting Jesus.
So no, I didn't celebrate the 4th. And no, I don't want to serve on a jury. We have to be things we don't want to be all the time. We have to do things we don't want to do.
I make it sound like nothing's been good happening for me lately. And that's not true. In case you missed it, West Trade Review published my poem "Philistine". The whole summer exclusives edition comes out July 15, so you're getting access to my poem a week early. There is also an audio recording of me reading the poem on YouTube.
Next, I'm excited to announce that Pleiades has accepted a poem and it's about a dog.
In other publishing news, my friends at Skipjack Review published a poem of mine called "Clearing Ditch". One of the editors of Skipjack is J.W. Huff, who I know as "Jimmy". We met at River Pretty and the first year I went, (which was 2023, the first year I started writing poetry again after 20 years), I didn't bring water or food or snacks—just beer (idiot).
The night I got there, I ended up drinking a lot because I was sad and scared and excited about traveling the world for a year (yeah yeah), and the next day, woke up with a roaring hangover. Jimmy cooks a lot at River Pretty and saved my fucking life by offering me multiple meals. I'm not sure I ever told him this story or how much it meant to me. I've carved Jimmy's name into my heart with a spoon.
Finally, on the heels of attending Kenyon Writers Workshop, I've been accepted to Bread Loaf Writers' Conference in Vermont. I guess Robert Frost started this one? It seems fancy and even though I'm a last-minute addition (someone else bailed out and I was on the waiting list), I'm excited to go. I guess 2025 has turned into the year of writer conferences for me.
