Walt Whitman Award

So I was thinking that entries for the Whitman had to be postmarked by tomorrow, but it looks like they've extended the deadline two weeks. This is good, as my printer is out of ink.

I figure if Tony Tost can win the Whitman, so can Tony Robinson. It's not about good poetry, it's about being named Tony.

I think Mary Oliver will simply adore my sensitive nature poetry.

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So I'm working on my second book, tentatively titled "Wintered." Problem is, it's looking a lot like the first one. A bunch of love poems. With more pop culture detritus. And more winter stuff. Like snow. And ice. And eggnog. And Channukah.

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Every year for Christmas, Julia Covert buys me a Channukah gift. I wonder what I'll get this year.