My Little Golden Book of Phobias

Today, I watched as a young woman on a skateboard haul ass down a busy hill, weaving in and out as her backpack slid around on her shoulders. She was brilliant. No knee pads, no helmet, just her tail of hair flying out behind her.

I'm reading the winner's chapbook from a chapbook contest I entered and (obviously) did not win. They sent me an honorary copy (gee, thanks). I'm trying to be gracious. I found one poem I like. Really, one line. A line I might steal, if I scramble the words.

I'm much more careful about who (whom?) I submit to. I read the editor's works. I read previous editions to see if my work 'fits'. Journals will say they publish experimental poetry but they don't. They publish safe, tame work.

Sorry, Glee is on. I LOVE Glee. As much as Dexter. Seriously.