I Am a Proud Ochoite...

Ocho is the print magazine associated with multimedia, deservedly well-respected Mipoesias.

Didi Menendez, a poet whose work I love, kindly asked me for some poems--the only way I get published these days since I choose to pretend I am living inside a bubble for some reason. (I kept relating to the people in the weird transparent spheres in Bosch's paintings when I was looking at them yesterday.)

The Harrisburg poets, when I knew them, used to call me Emily Dickinson for my terrible attendance record with readings and such. Now they don't call me anything, because most of the local poets I knew have either died, moved or given up poetry. When I look for them on FACEBOOK, they're not there. I believe that's reason for a call to the police: "Officer, I'd like to report someone missing..." And the ones whom I don't know, don't know me, so why would they call me anything but "some guy I don't know."*

I'm guessing the handful who gave up poetry went through some sort of twelve step program or cognitive behavioral therapy loop. I refuse to attend meetings or be some biofeedback lab rat. "I don't have a writing problem. Really, I don't. I can stop whenever I want." :-)

Anyway, it looks to be a great issue and Marcus Slease is in it, so that made me feel comfortable being there right away. And a slew of other poets whose work I look forward to reading.

Didi picked the poems I hoped she would pick from the set I sent, so I'm doubly happy. She took three sonnets (including my "Myself as Camille Claudel on FACEBOOK" sonnet) and my longish Andy Warhol poem.

It was great because it took the edge off the day; I had just had a nasty bitch fight on the phone with a collection agency who keeps calling for somebody who doesn't even live here, and has never lived here, but apparently they think I'm hiding information.

You should hear the message I left when I finally got to the voice mail. I'm sure they gathered around to listen to it. I wouldn't want to hear it back, although I would probably laugh now. I think I spoke about three thousand words into the phone in about two minutes, and with the various weird pitch changes I probably sounded like the full complement of Ativan-deprived Eumenides being told there are no slots left open in the Underworld Parking Garage today, it's going to have to be "On street, metered today, Ladies."

I looked them up online and they're the sort of agency Dateline investigates. Anybody can go out and buy a list of names now. Many of the people buying these names are drug dealers who are using these businesses as fronts to launder money. The ones investigated on Dateline were little fly-by-night operations like this which were headed by drug dealers (one later busted for his huge cache of illegal weaponry and sent to federal prison). You can tell when you have one of these agencies on the line because of their violation of the code by which debt collectors are bound and their general, all-around lack of professionalism. Many of the collectors have the manners of your typical heroin addict. Probably because they ARE your typical heroin addict. And they get to scream at you (or think they do) because their goon squad commander thinks he's Scarface (he probably even has the jacket). Spare me. Well I looked up the name on the caller i.d. Tons of complaints online and horror stories. And the worst part is they keep hanging up on me every time I try to get them to get my number out of their system. I haven't seen that person in years and years!! They never lived here!!! I try to threaten them with the Attorney General's office but I never get that far as they are so good at talking over you and hanging up on you. I think they must have had a special class to hone both those skills. I imagine a furious talking and slamming session with an instructor standing in front of twenty cadets who are furiously screaming and slamming the phones down out of synch so it sounds like some sort of horrible experimental concerto in plastic and dial tone...

88 Telephones?

88 piano keys. 88 constellations.

Coincidence? Or not.

Thank You, Didi Menendez!



*This post was written entirely in my "good little girl voice." Because I'm happy. I'll just sit here and lick my ice cream. I won't even pull that cat's tail. I won't.