Hunter S. Thompson, journalist who took no guff from the swine, has taken his own life at home in Colorado tonight.

It’s raining here like crazy tonight, just a few miles from La Conchita. Some news reports say that the town is basically deserted; I can’t confirm this. Nobody wants to see the people there suffer any more, but I think the risk of more slides is very great. I drove by La Conchita recently, and it looks risky to me.

Thank God tomorrow is a holiday, so at least traffic will be lighter than usual.

So last night I took Tasha and went to Viola Fields, a recreational area on the bluffs above the ocean, across the freeway from where we live. It was a beautiful dusk, with great reefs of storm clouds hanging, and rain falling in the west.

click to enlarge

BETWEEN STORMS

Sad, how the clouds gather again
against the small hills
for reasons I cannot comprehend,
and how I stand here watching
the last boat carrying men
from oil rigs in the cast iron sea.

Sad, how all the gulls are home
asleep, having eaten all day,
how I see the shadow of the clock
on the water, its hands turning
from island to harbor
to the tender sand beneath my feet.

So sad, how finally I am rising up,
falling in a long arc
into the mountains of darkness.

Kyle Kimberlin
copyright

This is how things get built. Thank goodness for people with ideas.

Couple Build Startup Into Blog Powerhouse

“I always get up and make a cup of coffee while it is still dark-it must be dark—and then I drink the coffee and watch the light come… Writers all devise ways to approach that place where they expect to make the contact, where they become the conduit, or where they engage in this mysterious process. For me, light is the signal in the transition. It’s not being in the light, it’s being there before it arrives. It enables me, in some sense.”

– Toni Morrison

Right, that’s how it’s done. I know this from experience but in my vast sloth I don’t do it. I stay in bed until my head is clear and I can admit the world is up and probably means me no immediate harm.

This news story, in which two women caretakers are suiing for harassment and hostile workplace, just goes to show a variation on Gonzo truth: When the going gets weird, the weird will litigate.

Oh man, this is so funny. I chuckle at Get Fuzzy every day, but this one is just too good not to share.

If you have Bloglines like me (see right column) you can subscribe to Get Fuzzy by RSS and have it deliver right to your PC in time for your morning coffee. There are other aggregators, but I like Bloglines. So there.

“I don’t think there’s anybody back there.”

I don’t mind that you think slowly but I do mind that you are publishing faster than you think.
-Wolfgang Pauli, physicist, Nobel laureate(1900-1958)

I’ve been cataloging my poems — all the poems I’ve written since my little book was published about a decade ago. I’ve got about 120, approximately 80 of which are in a folder called “Finished,” and the rest in “WIP.” Work in Process.

Does that seem like a lot? Not to me. But it’s more than enough to go another small book, and to send pieces out to journals. Why haven’t I been doing that? A friend says I’m not good at promoting myself. True. I have the self confidence of a bar of soap. When I’ve been published, it’s usually been with the help of friends.

The last poem I had published was Shadow of Ferns, in 2000, in Pembroke Magazine. That’s a bit of a hiatus. And as I recall, I actually submitted to them in 1998. So it’s been seven years since I sat down with envleopes and stamps and printed things and mailed them out. Ouch.

Well, I’m going to try to turn this around. I’m actually not a bad poet, notwithtanding the meager responses my stuff gets on this blog. Some of you are as bad at expressing your reactions to what you read as I am at dealing with envelopes and stamps. I don’t hold it against you. But if you have any suggestions on where I should submit, please leave them in comments, or use the e-mail link. I’d be grateful.

THE SHADOW OF FERNS

Some night you will be cold
and alone. Maybe an animal
is crying outside or the wind
is dragging a branch of palm
across the roof and it wakes you.
If you love me, say my name aloud.

There is no ceremony.
Just say it once or twice
into the darkness, or into the cool
electric glow of your lamp.
Say it slowly to a patch of moonlight
on the rug.

Maybe I will hear it, as I stare
at the vague shadow of ferns
cast by the moon on my drapes.
Then say it for hope, for life,
for the distance between us.

Kyle Kimberlin
Copyright

Tasha’s leg is OK. Her severe limp went away after an extra long good night’s sleep. Thank you for sending e-mails of support and good wishes. I love my little dog, and I hate it when she’s not doing well.

This just arrived from Joseph at Drachenthrax .

I know that he didn’t post it on his blog because he fears Their scrutiny. I am not afraid. Dog is stronger than Zogg. Nevertheless, you must be made aware: Resistance is futile. … Really, this is the kind of stuff that makes my overpriced Net connection worth it.