Kill Harriet

I just had it on my list for days. It means write my last post. I did it. Anything I write from this word on is gravy. I’ve enjoyed the battles, Harriet, I’m grateful. I’ve even enjoyed my own forays down into the thread to do some serious barking. I’d especially like to thank the organizers of this blog. Merci. Friends. I’ve truly enjoyed the immediate opportunity to comment on the world of poetry, or the world, to speak as a female or a dyke or a person of a particular economic class or aesthetic class. I suppose there are people left in the world who think that to make too much of one or another of these things is tawdry. But my life, and many other lives are marked by these facts so it only seems reasonable for them to occasionally if not frequently appear in my writing. Especially here. Let’s face it, this is a remarkable form: the blog. A vague shape, supposedly not timeless at all. The very disposable nature of this medium is a challenge.  What’s written here is saved like the internet is saved. Everything’s floating around somewhere but just the fact of that “somewhere” makes everything quickly feel pretty evanescent if not downright worthless. So it’s an opportunity to write right into the rim of your time. I think.