This poem is based on a true story. I get wine-drunk sometimes with my sisters and they laugh at me when I go on tangents about time travel, the multiverse and math.

As for that other thing? That unsafe man? Yes. That’s true too.

Speculative poetry though, lets you mix true and untrue. It lets you ask, “what if, what if, what if…” It lets the story become less about him. It makes it hers instead. And since the story is hers, since it’s true and untrue, she gets to have ownership of it. I asked my sister if I could write about what happened to her. I asked her if I could submit it for publication. I asked, when it was accepted, if she was okay with it being published. I asked that she read it and quit saying that she “trusted me” because I needed her to say yes with every bit of her. I even asked if it was okay to share it on social media where our friends and family overlap and people might question her or doubt her veracity or memory.

I got a yes, emphatically, every single time.

My sister thinks I’m very sweet, if a little silly to keep asking. But that’s the point – This is her story, all of it, even the parts that are my love and my fury, because they don’t exist without her. She gets to choose if and how I tell it. There are days I want to be an avenging harpy…but I have to remember, I need a yes first. It’s not mine to destroy.

And if this is your story too, you get to choose how and when and if you tell it. And if you want, if you choose, you can just hold the poem tight to your own heart. Your sisters love you and we believe you.

September has been a season of rejections, which feels like it should be illegal. I celebrated both my birthday and my wedding anniversary this month, and how dare everyone rain on my happiness parade. September is for connection and people declaring their love for me. (No, I don’t have an ego. At all. Not me.)

All the rejections have been very professional and kind, to be fair. They are always, “Thank you, but no.” or “No, but it was close, send more” and never “No, and how dare you.” The possibility of that latter response always scares the hell out of me.

But that fear’s entirely on me, you know? I made myself vulnerable and asked to be seen. There’s no guarantee anyone will like it. I know the answer is likely going to be no. The odds are not in my favor, especially when a publication only buys 12 stories a year. But courage and hope and maybe a little hubris have overwhelmed that sense of fear. I’ve made something that didn’t exist before and I’ve sent it out into the world, with a wish that it might connect with another person. It’s like a message in a bottle that’s been tossed into the ocean.

Many times, the ocean tosses it right back out. There’s a good chance I did just toss garbage into it, after all. The ocean doesn’t want that.

Garbage isn’t quite the right word. I know what I write isn’t garbage, even when I’m deep in a spiral of self-doubt. But it can also be true that I may simply not be skilled enough yet for that market. I know I’m better than I used to be at crafting stories. Logically, if I keep writing, I’m going to become more skilled. That’s how practice works.

But even then, it may not be enough. My story may be immaculately crafted and still not pass the vibe check. I write weird shit. I write beautiful shit. I write funny shit. Sometimes, I mix all that shit together, and I know it’s not going to connect with everyone. Or anyone. And I don’t say that because I think my perspective is unique and special. I say that because we all are unique and special. We all are creative. It’s part of being human. But it also means that what we love doesn’t always align.

Every now and then though, my skill and their vibes match, and I think it’s such beautiful, magical thing.

Here’s to a beautiful September. Let’s remember it as the September that I tried. Let’s remember it as a September that I was all in. That I was brave. That I hoped.

And someday, there will be a yes again.

And no, I will not be explaining further – except to say, the third is my favorite.

You all really need friends who are cheerleaders. Make sure to choose ones that will rough you up a little when your negative self-talk gets too loud. Like this:

I have another friend who is half-convinced “Strange Eons” has brought a plague of cicadas down on us all.

Despite that, she has been extremely supportive. Which I appreciate it – knowing you have a friend that will stick by you after you accidentally curse your shared city with a biblical plague is nice.

The cicadas really are everywhere this year.

This one was disgruntled that I didn’t run him over with my Jeep.

This one would have been disgruntled, but I’m pretty sure he’s dead.

I always move the cicadas off of sidewalks and away from tires when they’re drying their wings. I don’t like the idea of them getting squished.

I’m sure there’s a metaphor here about not letting your friends be squished-cicadas when they venture out into the world…but that connection is yours to make.

1. How many times do you have to be asked a question before it qualifies as an FAQ?

Don’t worry about it.

2. Did you intend to do (insert symbolic imagery, theme, and/or literary allusion) on purpose?

Probably! Like you, I am very clever. Also, I wrote it, so there’s a good chance I did it intentionally. For instance, you may have noticed the influence of Lovecraft’s, “The Nameless City” outside of the quote I pulled.

I have no memory of ever reading “The Insects from Shaggai” by Ramsey Cambell. But I read a lot of short stories and my memory is bad. So, who knows.

3. Why are so mean to Lovecraft while stealing his mythos?

Am I really that mean? I’m pretty tame, I think.

Lots of people write in Lovecraft’s world. Everyone knows he was racist. I doubt I’m the first to put the two together. Besides racists deserve to be called racist, and I hope his wimpy little ghost is huffing and puffing about it.

You can guess at what authors are afraid of by what they write into their horror. Grady Hendrix is afraid of bugs crawling in his ears. Stephen King fears teeth and cancer. R.L. Stine has a thing about garbage disposals. All of these things are objectively terrifying in the right circumstances. Lovecraft was terrified at the thought that humans weren’t the center of the universe. Of course we’re not. We never were. Get your shit together, Howard.  (Yes, yes, it’s more complicated than that. I don’t care.)

4. I would like to argue about abortion because you are wrong.

Nah.
Also, that’s not a question.

5. But you contradict yourself! You forgot to answer this question!

I didn’t forget. This is cosmic horror. That was intentional.

6. Did anyone actually ask you these questions?

No comment. I definitely have never ever interviewed myself once in my whole life.

I had a poem accepted this weekend. I haven’t signed the contract yet, so I’m not updating my “About Me” page yet but keep watching. (If anyone is reading this…I may be writing into the void and waiting for the void to answer back.)

It feels strange when people tell me they like my poetry. I want to respond like Nelson from The Simpsons, “Ha ha, you have feelings.”

It’s a silly reaction, I know. I wrote the damn thing, so obviously I tapped into those emotions and put them out in public, where people can see them. As someone who doesn’t like being perceived, I am hellbent on running straight into the sunlight.

While I try to figure that out, here’s a pig butcher/chef to ponder. I found him in an antique shop recently and I’m fairly certain he’s haunted. Or maybe he just creeps me out, as these little pig chefs have always creeped me out. Are they cannibals, serving up their fellow pigs? And if so, are they sentient? Look at that little smile. He seems so content, and almost happy, with his choices. Are they making pulled long pork, a.k.a human meat? Are there bodies hanging in a frozen meat locker somewhere?

Why does a pig have a job??? Do they even get paid minimum wage for murder?

WHY DOES HE HAVE HUMAN HANDS?

Discuss among yourselves. I’ll let you all know when/where the poem will be as soon as I know for certain.

A friend texted me last Thursday, “I wish you weren’t working on Friday. I need help moving some goats.”

I reminded her that I am always down for goat adventures and I have too much vacation that I need to burn because I work too damn much. Let’s go. I’ll bring a dog crate.

The goats were at a farm that is a safe refuge for pigs that grew too big to be pets, runaway (and unclaimed) peacocks in Indianapolis neighborhoods, and a menagerie of other farm animals. They had recently taken in eight goats that had been living in a truck. I am unclear if the truck was actually a semi/box truck or an old pickup truck. But, regardless, I imagine neither the truck nor the goats benefitted from that situation.

I like the pigs the best. We share a certain kinship.

Anyway, we very quickly loaded up two goats. You had to adopt in pairs. My friend’s young daughter picked her favorite and we requested the favorite’s best friend. You don’t break up best friends.

Goats are loud. Did you know? I knew but I absolutely did not know. Meet River Billy Beerman (River), the silver one and Hill Jack Chuckles (Jack), the calico. It was joint naming effort between the adults and young child. I think we did pretty well, but I expect the names to change and grow longer. Small children are excellent at naming animals. They also have a chicken named Bacon.

The goats are settling in, and they’ve only escaped twice (so far!). And I’ve been singing the goat version of “I knew you were trouble” non-stop.

Hire me, folks, for all your goat adventures.

Same, my friend. Same.