A Rose in Winter

Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

OCTOBER'S CHILD
—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA

Sun enlightens
backyard oaks
as red leaves fall
enthusiastically
from blue hills
in tenuous shadows
and a child
we know all too well
makes friends
with nature's words
writing his initials
on a branch.

______________________

WINTER IN CONFLICT
—B.Z. Niditch

In a knotted hatred
of war since childhood,
domestic or foreign,
my lonely initials
from my right hand
held your immigrant suitcase
by ash trees
in their cold shiver
like our own
at first light
near the train station
hearing questions
in broken English
anyone would ask
moonstruck by miles
between two shores
awakened by red eye
in lonely latitude
enveloped by darkness.

______________________

WINTER BY OCEAN
—B.Z. Niditch

Waiting around
on silence

The sun turns
on our backs

Clouds hide
seabird voices

Stretching sailors
ice fish

A graffiti artist
at the lighthouse

Dunes breathe
an eternal winter.

_____________________

WINTER GUEST
—B.Z. Niditch

On wintry nights
when conversation
like auspicious ivy
wears out
our hospitality,
and darkness
in the living room
exhales vagrancy,
as lamp lights
beneath a reflection
of elm and evergreen
cannot judge
our past cadences,
a cool silence spins
on our long day faces
until we recognize
the familar steps
of belonging.

_____________________

RESPONSES
—B.Z. Niditch

At three
am or pm
there is little
to ask for,
crucifixion
takes place
outside the city
gates
at the nameless hour,
the electric chair
is always ready
with present company
only to execute
judgement,
there is little mercy
on the sleeplesss walls
when a red rose appears
in winter
outside the hospice.

_____________________

A WELCOME
—B.Z. Niditch

Until the sound
of sparrows
at the edge
of first light
in dawn
of barely awakened
wisdom
as to the day
breathing in
the large mountain air
in one commotion
of birds flying upward
near the roof's melody.

By evergreen leaves
trailing in the yard
we overhear
resuming echoes
by the balcony sun
we welcome
unless we should close
the coverlet
and resume our rest.

_______________________  

Today's LittleNip: 

Today, while begging food, a sudden downpour.
I waited out the storm in a small shrine.
Laughing—one jug for water, one bowl for rice.
My life is like an old run-down hermitage—
poor, simple, quiet.

—Ryokan (trans. from the Japanese by John Stevens)

_______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to today's cooks in the Kitchen. Katy Brown will be reading at A Starry Night Poetry Series in Lodi this coming Sunday (tomorrow) at 2 pm; go to  www.astarrynightproductions.com/poetryseries/poetryseries.htm and scroll down for more info. And you can learn more about B.Z. Niditch at community-1.webtv.net/buzz-worthy/TheWorldofBZNiditch

And please take note of our new feature on the green board at the right of this column: N-SOWs (News-Seeds of the Week)—poem ideas that have been taken from the news.

 Canada Goose

—Photo by Katy Brown

Washing Up On This Floating Rock

Fishing Boats Leaving the Harbor, Le Havre

—Painting by Claude Monet, 1874

WINTER, 1879-81
CLAUDE MONET GOES TO WORK
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

These Winters had been extremely
Cold. Le givre, the frost, covered
Every morning, demanding the Seine
To be still, quieting the landscape
For days. There were no birds at all.

Camille was gone; a mist in the grey
Swirl that was all of Vetheuil that
Year. There was always the river.
It seemed to carry the most elusive

Of Colors for brief periods of the day.
This was a good place to look at without
Thinking. The ghost trees away, across
This frozen place would become translations.

Painting. The days passing. The ice finally
Moving changing into floes. Painting.
The sun trying to move the season.

Painting denies language and all
Mortal sounds. The Winter mutes
All things further into silence. Years
Later this time will have no appearance
Other than landscape, a view, an object.

It would take Monet years to paint
The river. The sunsets, the ice breaking
Up finally the coming of the Spring,
The palette changing, the light lengthening,
Apple trees in blossom by the water.


(Camille Monet, Monet’s first wife, died at Vetheuil on
September 5, 1879, at age 32.
)

_______________________

1923 AND 1938
EDOUARD VUILLARD PAINTING
—D.R. Wagner

It was the rooms that mattered.
They were the weather embracing
The figures, the glitter the spirit
Festoons itself with as it embraces
Time, the objects, the shadows opening
To reveal intimate spaces, everything included.

Washing his hands, Vuillard looks
Into the mirror, into the room,
The walls are covered with paintings
Of paintings, a chance to see
Them as they were, still becoming
What they would be, still changing.

Memory works this way, passage by
Passage. We are in the middle
Washing up, looking into a mirror
Reflecting the entire room, reflecting
An open window, reflecting our image.
This time it has become the painting.
We recognize the figures as reason enough
To make these complex observations.

Trying to say everything. This is how it was.
This is not remembering. “Here is that
Very chair you see. You are having tea.
Form that same cup she holds in the
Picture. She was delighted to see how
The painting showed many things she knew.

She has long since died. That
Room you see is no more, even
The building is gone. I come in here
Often to look at the painting.
This is how it was. It is like talking.”

______________________

PIERRE BONNARD AT LE GANNET, 1932
—D.R. Wagner

It was now 9:00 A.M.
The light would be entering
The bathroom just now.

The way the trees outside
The window caught this time precisely,
Bouncing it over the walls, mixing
It with the surface of the bath
Water. This was the time to paint.

Over and over again particular
Transparencies in the flesh sustained
Great challenge, stopping time
At every occasion, saturating the room
With trinkets of pale tints, quick
Necklaces precipitated by the season.

Again and again, each time without
Remembering the last, he moved
The paint across the canvas.
Each mark an instant only. This
Time exactly. This time exactly.

He sometimes thought the yellows were
Like singing, then not, then pattern.
The figure moving through them,
Rising, bending, claiming all the space
Object by object. Even once Pouette
Entered the room, lay down on the rug,
Waiting for Marthe to finish
Drying herself....Bonnard surprised
At the momentary intensity of his red
Dog, swirled against the grey-blue tiles.


(Poette was Bonnard’s dachshund;
Marthe was his wife.)

______________________

A VISION OF BORGES
—D.R. Wagner

I was in Missouri, the green
Hills outside Warrenton with
A stillness about them, rocks the
Color of Weinheimer dogs
And with their same color eyes.

In the middle of a glen
I saw da Messina’s angels
Holding the body of the dead Christ,
His limp wrist touching the cheek
An angel presents to the dead man.
The points of their wings attenuated,

The light became crippled in October
When everything seemed to us
So clear, became clouded,
Now abandoned and still, with
The lovely rocks piled just so
To hold the glow coming from
The body. I could tell no one.

That night, Borges appeared to me
In a dream. "I saw you in the
Woods.” He said, “I will tell no one
What has happened here.”

I am no longer able to dream.
The quiet invades my room
Thinking I am a lover, touches me
Where my love rises through the lateness
The hour presents to me, telling
A story I stand unable to explain
In any other way than this imagined

Dance to music leaking into the room
After one A.M. and here I am, darling,
Sitting on the edge of the bed,
Unable to weep or smile or
Recall how I even am allowed
To be here with everyone,
Feeling proud and erudite and
Perfectly silly that I may walk
Through these places without being arrested.

It seems, always, we are unable
To understand much of what happens
To us here on this floating rock.

I for one, am glad that music
Seems to be moving through me.
I think it is our blood moving as
A new Covenant, given
To us for the remission of
Sins, and as part of that
Covenant, we may have communion
With everything we encounter.
What do you think?

_____________________

Thanks to D.R. Wagner for today's painterly potpourri!

Don't forget the Sac. Poetry Center lecture series that begins Feb. 16. Only $99 (10% off for SPC members). $65 Mix/Match Pass (any four lectures you wish). Or, $20 per lecture. Runs Thursday evenings, 7:30-9pm; Feb 16–April 5. Proceeds benefit the Sacramento Poetry Center. Contact Tim Kahl (916-714-5401) for more information. Here is the schedule:

Feb. 16: Joshua McKinney — "Bolo and Bullshit: The Other T.S. Eliot"

Feb. 23: V.S. Chochezi — "Poetry Collaborations: Sacramento and Beyond" [Gary Snyder and Tom Killion, Electropoetic Coffee (NSAA and Ross Hammond), Poetry Machine (Mario Ellis Hill and friends, Fo'Shange, Straight Out Scribes) and much more]

March 1: Molly Fisk — "Women Poets: Friendship, Critique & Support"

March 8: Emmanuel Sigauke — "Contemporary World Poetry through International Poetry Web"

March 15: Bob Stanley and John Allen Cann — "The Blab of the Pave: Rhythm, Texture, Silence and Other Elements of Post-rhyming Poetry"

March 22: Judy Halebsky — "Japanese Literary Traditions in West Coast Poetics"

March 29: James DenBoer — "Kenneth Rexroth: The World Outside the Window"

April 5: Tim Kahl — "Surrealism and its Academic Discontents"

______________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

Painting is a blind man's profession. He paints not what he sees, but what he feels, what he tells himself about what he has seen.

—Pablo Picasso

______________________

—Medusa

Pietà
—Painting by Antonello da Messina, 1475

Needless Gerunds

Pinky's Pizza in Petaluma
Photo by Cynthia Linville, Sacramento

TURNED YELLOW BY THE VERY THOUGHT OF IT
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove

Worked for a while with
The Fair Oaks Theatre Festival,
Just before they went semi-pro.

Did the newsletter, readings
From plays, talks for clubs,
The usual PR stuff.

Realized it was time to move on
When they offered to build
A chicken suit for my appearances.

_____________________

I dreamed that I suddenly got a white horse—
out of nowhere he just appeared in my backyard
I didn't even think what I was going to do
For some reason I said to the horse I think I'll call you "Equus"
even though I know that was some freakin' weird play
about a mentally ill boy who blinded horses
I then just decided to hop on him with no saddle
All of the sudden the traffic and roads disappeared
and I rode him on the trails around the American River

—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

______________________

The nurse assures "Come on, it's just a routine screening..."
I can't even look at the tools supposed to penetrate me
"Haven't you had sex?"
even though she knows I haven't had children
"What the hell does that have to do with this test procedure?" I answer,
"It's just not the same"
But this plastic clamp won't hurt like the metal ones
which I told her I got hurt on long ago when one I guess went wrong
"You'll just feel pressure"
like she was just describing a massage instead
But any "toys" I've used don't prod me like this does
And I swear I have vulval nerves that shoot pain throughout my body
I decide I can't go through with it unless I get something to numb
as one would have, getting a cavity filled at the dentist

—Michelle Kunert

______________________

OUR FEATHERED FRIENDS #4
—Michael Cluff, Corona, CA

They and I
play a game of patience
with my car
underneath the eucalyptus.

Learning their dietary
cycles and flights,
I can time my moves
my castling
of rook and king
unless parking restraints
force me otherwise.

The sparrows don't
pay any notice
if my Charger is
in their bombsite
the cement and blacktop
then suffer more
that they would do usually.

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

IN SEARCH OF AN ACRONYM
—Caschwa

YIPPEE! – Your Investment Portfolio Proudly Exceeds Expectations!
SIGN HERE – Security Is Good Neighbors, Hope Eternal Resides Everywhere
THOUSAND – True Hearts of the United States of America Never Die
SOAP – Serenity, Optimism, And Peace
WALNUT SHELL – Whoever Arrives Last Needs Us To Show How Excellence Lasts Longer
POETRY – People Over-Eat Then Repose Yawning
WISHFUL THINKING – What If Sudden Hot Flashes Ultimately Launched True Happiness In Not Knowing Infinite Needless Gerunds

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to today's cooks for some wonky sh*t, as they say..... :-)

Apple Hill, 2011

—Photo by Cynthia Linville

Mac-n-Cheese Day

In the wilderness

You survive

By the skin of your teeth

On the flesh of men

Or you die

And you die

—Photo of Donner Lake and Poem 
by Ronald Edwin Lane, Colfax

MLK
—Charlie Mariano, Sacramento

picked up my granddaughter
yesterday
so we could go to our
secret place

our
not-so-secret place
is Boston Market
and according to her,

“the best mac-n-cheese in the world!”

for now
this place rules

while gobbling that goo,
she says,
“Happy Martin Luther King Day grandpa”

between sticky gulps
i said,
“well thank you, same to you”

she puts down her plastic fork
and looks at me all serious,

“grandpa, i don’t know what we’re supposed to do
this day”

“what did they teach you in school?”
i asked

“my teacher said this is a holiday for people
with dark skin,”

“is that so,” i said, “she said that?”

“no, she called them something else”

“African-American?” i asked

“yeah, that’s it,” she said, “that King guy
was important”

“very important,” i said
“you know, you have dark skin too,”
i told her

“but i’m dark like you, they’re different,”
she added,

“no, not really,” i said, “we’re all the same”

her face got all scrunched up
trying to soak it all in
then she smiled,

“ohhh, so today is for everybody?”

“sort of,” i told her

“Happy Mac-n-Cheese Day grandpa”

_____________________

DRY SPELL
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

Winter-brittle grass
at the edge of dirty pavement.
Every mark on the gauge
reads empty.
No juncos, no robins,
a month since rain.
Soil wrinkles like old skin,
the pasture's waste.
Not a wing
feathers the air.
Sheep move
as if under a spell
under this unbreakable
blue sky.

______________________

WHERE HAVE THE BIRDS GONE?
—Taylor Graham

samisen music sown on rumor—
sewn in reminiscence.
memories revive: a mecca, a caress,
cucurrucucu.

a wren, a crane, a vireo, a swan.

once-aurora, now an eve.
susurrus. musicians score an aria
sonorous as au revoir.
we owe a raven's ransom.

a sorrow soars.

____________________

HE RECITES “TO A SKYLARK”
—Taylor Graham

Utters
mutters
flutters
stutters
They all laugh. He mutters, stutters—words
wing-clipped, till he flutters, utters birds.

____________________

LOOKING FOR THE ROSY FINCH
—Taylor Graham

Grinding
winding
finding
blinding
The trail steep and winding, grinding, long.
Birds against sun blinding, finding song.

____________________

McGEESE
—Caschwa, Sacramento
(Inspired by Michele Kunert’s photo of Canada Geese in McKinley Park—see Medusa's Kitchen post Monday, Jan. 16)


They flocked here from Canada just as others before
had from Ireland, Scotland, and England
Disease would cut short the lives of many,
And some would be shot for sport

They did not migrate here to flee the inadequacies
Of Canadian Universal Health Care in favor of
The allegedly better services offered when big gov
Puts big bills in the collection trays of private enterprise

Each quacky one, as they enjoy the serenity of the park,
Remembers those fateful days when predecessors of
Our “better than them” health care professionals darkly
Feared the side effects of X-rays more than a lodged bullet

Putting poor William on a permanent path to gangrene
By today’s standards, assisting the assassination
Hamstringing first responders with the mandate:
Wait until the FDA finally, officially says it is OK

______________________

OUR FEATHERED FRIENDS #1
—Michael Cluff, Corona, CA

They please me
with their melodies
merry and sweet in natural
trilling without restraint
and bias unless
the call of bees and avians
are involved.

The cage is a killer
even unto the domesticated,
wings were evolved
for a purpose
that contains many acres
of unbounded skies
and clouds.

__________________

OUR FEATHERED FRIENDS #2
—Michael Cluff

MAXIM:

Emus, ostriches and chickens
find
eagles, orioles and canaries
enviable
as well as offensive.

__________________

OUR FEATHERED FRIENDS #3
—Michael Cluff

Deluded and elated
he flew
ever upward
towards freedom
what birds obtain
naturally
without construction.

Dad warned Icarus
that escape
does have its downfalls
if ....

____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

I love bamboo how it looks
and because men carve it into flutes

—Ikkyu (trans. from the Japanese by Steven Berg)

____________________

—Medusa

 Canada Goose

—Photo enhancement by D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

When You Listen

Photo by Joyce Odam

LIKE GRIEF

—Joyce Odam, Sacramento

What a gift—this plaintive
sound from your imagination—
this little crying,
heart-shape, heart-size,
growing larger as you listen.

You have heard it before,
when you were a child
in another season.
The sound was lost
and you had to find it,

save it,        hold it.
And it seeks you now,
as if you were its mother—
like grief—and remembrance
of grief, having found each other.

_____________________

PROCRASTINATION
       (after “Coming Home at Twilight in Late Summer”
        by Jane Kenyon from her book, Otherwise)
—Joyce Odam

It was simply this—as simple as
simple is—as slow and careful
as procrastination—almost
deliberate, the way we

drifted away from tedium
and went out into the
cool sad dusk to let our shadows
touch the shadows there.

It was something we would
remember and care about—
our little deviation from duty . . .
from clock . . . from need to do . . .

we took a walk—
it was as simple and easy as that,
not caring what piled up
behind us, or out-waited our return.

____________________

WHEN THERE IS FEAR
—Joyce Odam

This is the all of it, the resistance,
the surrender,

when all argument is done and each value
proven—

the purity of all that is given in return
for what is taken.

All of this.
All is all. And enough.

Nothing disproves this.
The balance is held, and still is tested.

It is where reason goes
when there is fear—

some dim, unreachable place full of shadow,
full of following light.

____________________

WHEN YOU LISTEN
—Joyce Odam

What is in the box of silence
that echoes so thinly—
little less than a whisper

but louder than a shadow—
a word that comes back to you
with all its meaning—

still insisting—but silence
has been laid-away for good
and cannot be resurrected now.

____________________

GOODBYE
     (after “Goodbye” by Robert Creeley, in
      American Poets Say Goodbye to the 20th Century)
—Joyce Odam

Say it simply. Say it softly and sadly.
It is the longest word you will ever say.
Give it a black border for the death it imitates.

Let it go freely.
You cannot call it back.
It is a word without meaning.

A quick word. A spondee word.
It will come of its own volition.
You cannot regret it.

Let it take everything it needs.
How you hoarded it.
How you refused it—keeping it

longer than necessary.
Let it have your regret, that baggage of doubt,
that second thought.

_____________________

Thanks, Joycey, for whipping us up such a tasty stew today!

Be sure to have a look-see at the new stuff posted in the green box at the right of this column: this week's Form to Fiddle With (the Tyburn); a couple of new Kool Thing(s) of the Week; and our Seed of the Week: Our Feathered Friends. Are we talking about birds? Icarus? Angels? Feathering our nests? Featherbrains? Send your mighty SOW musings to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though—see Calliope's Closet in the green board (under the Snake on a Rod) for all we've tackled throughout the ages...

While you're scrolling around, take note of the gradual increase in poetry readings in our area, now that the holidays are over. Those are on the blue board under the green board.

And if you didn't catch it yesterday, Michelle Kunert has the current album on Medusa's Facebook page, this one of the Sac. Poetry Center's Writer's Brush event for Second Saturday. Check it out!

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

ATTRACTION
—Joyce Odam

Come to my light, says the dark corner of love—
shadow outstretched, like an arm, a glow in the middle,

like an eye. I will promise you whatever you need,
says the lie. And the other enters—enters to be held,

since one has a need of the other—and they meld.

____________________

—Medusa

Photo by Joyce Odam

Stone Songs and Artichoke Hearts

Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento
(Be sure to check Medusa's Facebook page for 
more of Michelle's photos of last Saturday's
Writer's Brush event at Sac. Poetry Center)

J.S. TAKES FLIGHT
(a fantasy)
—Taylor Graham

Papa Bach is scarce about the house,
overburdened as it is with death
and childbirth. Ironies of fathering

so many diapered geniuses, some
already gone too young;
it could make a musician nervous.

Under stained glass he pumps
at the organ, chord on polyphonic
chord, the bellows swelling intricate

and silken, a hot-air balloon of woven
color. The vaulted ceiling gapes.
J.S. climbs aboard; on contrapuntal

easterlies he rises over rooftops,
farmland, rivers, along the coast, as
Anima mea drifts down, mist upon sea,

its endless segue of shore
into breakers, Gloria Patri sounding
its way to the soundless deeps.

_______________________

ELEMENTAL
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

They placed stone atop stone,
each row lighter than the one below,
each course reaching out of earth
into sky, which they called the breath
of angels, light defining space.

The walls of stone leaned in, one
toward another, till at last
they almost touched, rock wishing
to be lace, harp, or lily, longing
that arched and spired like music.

Stones became praying hands
to shelter candle-flame,
till plainsong couldn't be
contained, but curved on itself,
echoing and dancing

in lines and strands of tone
beyond unraveling or exegesis,
but rose like earth into sky;
voice of clay, voice of stone,
dust on wind.

_____________________

RODENT OLYMPISM
—Rhony Bhopla, Sacramento

And then the determined mouse
balanced
an eyelash on a toothpick
rolled
the rubber of tiny erasings
swung
on a large paper clip
lifted
a cotton swab up ten steps
danced
to a ring-tone,
and then
swam in the cat’s water bowl.

_____________________

CAMELOT
—Caschwa, Sacramento

The lowly worker
Played the Lottery
And won!
But not the lottery

His prize was
Newfound knowledge
Of how to prosper
He has yet to collect it

It is right there
Waiting at the corner
Of Getouttamy Way
And Dark Alley

Bring your own light
Bring your own map
Bring your own police
It’s that kind of place

Clinging tightly to mystery
Like the Bermuda Triangle,
Writer’s block,
The Black Hole of space

You can’t win
If you don’t play
You won’t win
If all you do is play

Fate sets its own course
Defying human logic
Spearheading rebellion
Changing your lucky number

____________________

WARSHIP A HIGHER POWER
—Caschwa

Can’t use real names
Or ruffle the feathers of
People who own lots of
Real, commercial, residential,
Intellectual, or physical property

They will bring out the big guns
And sue your ass off
Throw you in jail
Toss your future in the garbage

But we still have our precious
Right to vote which lets us
Nominate electors who will
Choose the “right” people
To steer our government, our thinking

We must trust these chosen ones
And everything they say
It is for your better interests
You know, the ones they picked
To honor a higher power

____________________

TIRED POEM
—Caschwa

Feet tangled in the sheets
Head buried in the pillow
Snooze button moot
It is Saturday

The telephone rings
It is a wrong number
Or the right number
At the wrong time

I am not going to honor it
With a reasoned response
Unless you find logic
Coded in my snoring

Yes breakfast will cook itself
While the checkbook balances
All household chores are delegated
To entities outside Dreamland

Clear skies, rays of sunlight
Pierce through the blinds
A rainbow of eyelid colors
I’m being pulled over

For sleeping too fast
Failing to yield to the inevitable
Shock of waking up
Now it’s Sunday…

_____________________

CURRENT EXCHANGE
—Michael Cluff, Corona, CA

The penny you picked up
was not meant for
your pinched ways.

Leave it for me,
the homeless
sidewalk sitter——

I will go on
waiting a long time
for another penny

Just so I can,
if you
are willing to
listen,

put my
two cents
in.

___________________

DUALITY
—Michael Cluff

Mr. Lambeau
teaches pre-school
in Sedco Hills
but works undercover
on the weekend
and holidays.

His services
amongst the maven
and matron sets
are quite exhaustive.

____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

He brought artichokes
picked at the height of ripeness
and left with her heart.

—Patricia A. Pashby, Sacramento

____________________

—Medusa

Canada Geese in McKinley Park, Sacramento

—Photo by Michelle Kunert

The Death of Words

Secret Garden

—Photo by Cynthia Linville
 

I, OR SOMEONE LIKE ME

—Marvin Bell

In a wilderness, in some orchestral swing

through trees, with a wind playing all the high notes,

and the prospect of a string bass inside the wood,

I, or someone like me, had a kind of vision.

As the person on the ground moved, bursting halos

topped first one tree, then another and another,

till the work of sight was forced to go lower

into a dark lair of fallen logs and fungi.

His was the wordless death of words, worse

for he remembered exactly where the words were

on his tongue, and before that how they fell

effortlessly from the brainpan behind his eyes.
But the music continued and the valley of forest floor

became itself an interval in a natural melody

attuned to the wind, embedded in the bass of boughs,

the tenor of branches, the percussion of twigs.

He, or someone like him, laughed at first,

dismissing what had happened as the incandescence

of youthful metabolism, as the slight fermentation

of the last of the wine, or as each excuse of love.

Learning then the constancy of music and of mind,

now he takes seriously that visionary wood

where he saw his being and his future underfoot

and someone like me listening for a resolution.

______________________ 

—Medusa

Happy birthday to Cynthia Linville, and don't forget that TODAY is the deadline for submissions to WTF from Rattlesnake Press: See www.rattlesnakepress.com/wtf.html