When the water is too deep, you can close your eyes and really sleep tonight.

Hopefully I will come up with a title for the poem below while writing this poemlogue, if I may borrow one of Viv’s most fabulous words. I must begin by asking that if click on any links today, Dear Reader, please let it be this one: The Superlions Marooned on an Island. I have been obsessed with these lions for almost two years. I dream of them. I want to meet them. I wish that I had come up with the LOLCat created in homage to these most wonderful superlions I’ve posted in this entry.

When the course of the Okavango River in the Duba Plains of Botswana shifted around fifteen years ago, these lions were left stranded on an island in the middle of the river. These lions did not die out as expected. Instead, they began to evolve. Dear Reader, you must, must, must read the article about them! And watch the National Geographic special, too, if you can!

And a shout-out to KL for inviting me to go see the wild horses on the island with her! I can’t wait! They are in the poem below!

But it’s not for me to say

Distant ships hold every woman

[rest-of-poem is riding on the back of a superlion. yay!]

Because Public Shame Is Occaisionally A Necessity

Dear reader, in order to properly poemlogue this poem, I have to make a shocking and shameful confession.

I am a power walker.

Yes, a power walker. One of those people with bent elbows swinging you see on the side of the road and instantly, almost despite yourself, want to smash to paste beneath your tires. One of those people you sometimes see in the mall very early in the morning, before the stores have even opened up, zooming past you with footsteps that you notice are nightmarishly in tune with “Eye of the Tiger.” One of those people who invest in sports bras and special power walking shoes (yes, there are such things) and breathable athletic shorts simply to, well, walk.

But there is a reason behind this madness, dear reader! For the walk is an important — nay, essential! — part of the creative process! For the walk stills the mind! Centers it! The walk is the only time during the day when I’m not, well, thinking about fashion and diamond heart necklaces and the awful sin of sixteen birthstone grandmother rings! And focusing! Seeing! The things one will see! Which are, sadly, often smashed to the paste one often wants to smash power walkers into. Thus, the poem:

Roadside

[Nasties.]