Poetry...?

This is what I would begin a book of poetry with--in another world where I were published.

They told me that a compilation
of poetry had to have cohesiveness,
a common thread throughout.
So I loosely sewed the pages
together.

Poetry, I said, here is my mind,
make it your own. So it ran
to my bookcase and curled up
with 'Four Quartets.'
What a slut.

Poetry is the promiscuity
of style,
if you ask me.
To date no one has.

My pen may be mightier than the sword,
but it's no match for a publisher's scorn.
They returned my precious book of poetry
as loose pages with a post-it reading:
'What the Fuck!'
Exclamation point.

I sent them a post-it back reading:
'Use of the word "what" begs a question mark.
P.S. where is my thread?'

I received one more post-it:
'we wondered the same thing.'

Nomad's Dilemma

"Went to the porch to have a thought, got to the door and again I couldn't stop...I guess it's not surprising but it's spring and I should leave." --Modest Mouse

I have been back in the Twin Cities for 2 1/2 months now, a place that I love and very much wanted to be, and after just this brief time I am somehow thinking of everywhere else I could be. Suddenly I have ideas of moving to New York or Boston, Seattle or Portland, even LA (LA? Really? Why?) Should I join Peace Corps? Move to Africa--once I'm there it would be pretty cheap...London? Impossible Visa laws...back to Asheville? That is the most logical option. I know I love it, I love my people there, but I left because of the less than ideal job situation the first time.

Why not stay in Minneapolis? Fantastic question. And it happens to be one I cannot answer.

Is this a disease? Nomaditis? Am I just unsettled and restless, searching endlessly for something impossible to find? Or am I by nature an adventurous person with an innate need for change and new experiences?

What causes a person to be addicted to travel? Are we the lost ones? Or are we the ones who truly understand what life should be about?

"Am I or the others crazy?" --Albert Einstein