Wilderness House has just released its first issue of its ninth year of publication. I'm very pleased that three of my poems are included ("Post Feast," "Last Impressions Of Some Clerk," "Burn Victim").
I recommend you peruse all the contributors' poetry, for a delightful and edifying variegation. However, here is the direct link to my work, as time is often imperious:
I'm getting on a plane tomorrow, to go from Los Angeles to Maine, and I am not certain if I will be able to walk. I might have to do it in a wheelchair. I don't care, I just want to get back. I wish the pains that keep cropping up in various parts of my feet, crippling pains, would simply subside. But when one goes, another seems to rear up. It's very cruel of fate to let me think I will soon be walking again--and then to insert another crippling pain the next morning.
It's been going on for a couple months, and has worn me down psychologically. Bargaining, anger, depression, denial, cheery displacement--they rotate in the carousel of my mind. It's a bizarre and intense lesson about the nature of reality, and how my thoughts interact with it. I can't say it's fun, or that it is ultimately good for me, or my health, not at all--but it fills me with vehement emotions that I can barely, sometimes, channel into my writing. Maybe that channeling, ultimately, is the only positive aspect.
The worst of it all is that I have become a whiny creature, when others have it far worse than me. But I have to process.