I think it’s sort of…

I think it's sort of fascinating, the way people have felt the need to either write about 9/11/01 or just be silent today. I have to admit, I've hardly thought about it at all. I got up and did some cooking for the workshop; I finished reading a Karin Lowachee novel (fun, but didn't blow me away), I reread Bujold's Falling Free just 'cause, I played a lot of Civilization against David. We haven't really succeeded at this whole playing head-to-head thing; we both tend to just stay quietly in our area, building our cities up, extending our roads, developing our science, cleaning up pollution, etc. In many hours of gameplay, we haven't fought each other yet. It struck me at some point today that this was faintly ironic, given the date. Maybe someone should put us in charge of the world after all. We'd send everybody home to take care of their own shit. Mourn the senseless dead. Kick the idiots out of power. Rebuild.

It's just my default, I guess. I build things. Sometimes, I build things that no one wants, and then I get to share them with y'all. I just got back rejections for two poems for the Say, Was that a Kiss zine. One of them was just goofy, but I rather like the other one, and since I can't imagine anyone else buying it (that's the problem with writing things for very specific markets), here ya go:

gold rose dust: a fairy tale

they promise her a kiss, the twelve
fairies bending over her crib, a kiss to wake
her from her sodden sleep, a kiss to make
up for the weeping years, the loss
of sunrise in the mountains, water
dried to dust in fountains across
her courtyard; a consolation and a hope,
a rope to cling to as she swings through
the abyss, a kiss to wake the princess from
her sleep, to keep her safe and whole
in her chamber high above, a kiss for
love, and so, you know, she does not fear
when the witch beckons -- "Come here,
my dear..." -- she climbs the stair, her
golden hair trailing down, catching
dust, as she must, in the hundred years
to come; she pricks her thumb on the
spinning wheel, so quick, so slick, she doesn't
feel a thing, and then she sleeps, to dream
of tender kings and wedding rings, the
wings of love to lift her up from where she
lay, but what is this? the sun sets in the west;
its dying rays illuminate two babes upon
her breast, a pair of twins whose eager
lips bring only pain to the tips... oh, what
is this, this is not bliss, what's gone amiss,
oh say, twelve fairy godmothers, oh
say...was that a kiss?