I have been very dissipated lately. Lethargic, mourning my lack of progress on any aspect of my life. And sleeping. My old friend, the bed. I know, at my old age, that nothing will get done unless I do it, but logic don't enter into it.
Started a book I've wanted to read forever, case sensitive, which is a murder mystery in poetry. Also have purchased (of course) The Lineup: Poems on Crime. In the mid 90s, I had a chapbook literary magazine (through the copier) called Work Outa Buffalo. In 1996, I did an issue called Trouble is my Business. Hard-boiled poetry.
But this was done by mostly men, so it's gone further. Bitter? Sleepy.
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