i don't remember my dreams very often. the past week i've been going to bed early, and thus caught up on much needed shut-eye. so last night's snooze brought a dream, a doozy, only that i remember just a piece of it. i think i was writing a draft of a poem, then was either at eileen's house or a restaurant, and ms chatelaine was showing me the menu for dinner. anna was there, and nicholas was soundly asleep. and and there were a few other poets seated at the dinner table, but fuck-all if i can't recall the rest.

must've been a great meal for i woke up soundly. nope, i don't think about interpreting dreams. i simply accept them, and this was a nice one for it involved food, friends, poetry and my family.

anyway, check out these poems by irish poet billy mills posted by sam ward. i googled mills, whom i've read only in richard caddel's and peter quartermain's anthology of british and irish experimental poetry, and find this essay which touches upon a subject i've been thinking about lately. how do we, as poets, as human beings, live in the world and not totally fuck it up.

like fer sure, like totally