Why did biology class never teach us to interpret the weird sounds our bodies would start making at around age 52? Instead it was all about the pistils and the stamens and the mitochondria and the cell division.

I swear to you, something in my left flank just made a noise like half a whippoorwill call — but with a wistful timbre to it.

If I call my doctor tomorrow and ask him about wistful-whippoorwill-kidney, he’s going to dump me as a patient. Because he’s put up with a lot of shit up until now.

Raise your hand if you think Haiku AF would be a great name for a literary magazine.

I submitted a poem to a new journal; I got a somewhat terse rejection letter.  Then, just to underscore the point, they sent me the same rejection letter a day later.  Sort of an encore-type thing.

Then, finally, I get an e-mail welcoming me to “The Sub Club” asking me if I “Want Attention.”  I swear I am not making this up.

Not even gonna touch that one.

I got halfway down the wrong street before the storefronts finally clued me in.  (“Wow, was this furniture store always here?”  “They put in a bakery?!  Overnight?!  Ohhhhhh … wait.”)

With me, it’s metaFIVE, Baby, metaSIX, metaTEN.

Waiting for the inevitable “Spinal Tap” joke …