SUNDAY BREAKFAST

No, my friends, I am not drinking Tang on the moon this Sunday, although, in some respects I’m fascinating close. If we extend the NASA metaphor, I guess you could say I was flat on my back, strapped down in the command module, as the countdown comes closer to ignition, lift-off, and that Atlas blast of acceleration to escape velocity. The band that constitutes The Deviants Last Stand is on the pad. We are seriously seeking selected shows all over this land. Meanwhile I have a reading next week, a poetry collection I need to get into print, and much more fact and fiction to keep me pounding at the keyboard. No to mention what’s laughing called civilization is clearly coming apart at the seams. As I write this NYC is in hiding from a hurricane. And while not wanting to actively talk about my private life, it seems to have a taken a turn for the totally who’d-have-though-it, and I’m no longer buying into the concept that I’m better equipped to write the good fight when fucked up and miserable. Like Jim said, “Summer’s almost gone.” It’s time to reap the mists and mellow fruitfulness of fall and take ownership of the night that will be drawing in. (For our younger readers, Tang – a powdered orange drink – was taken to the moon by NASA’s Apollo astronauts back when we still dreamed of infinity.)

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The secret word is Rising