In the dead of winter, dead of night.

Whenever I’m down — whenever I’m feeling unfashionable (though I know I hide it well, kicking up my heels in front of the extravagant Christmas tree and all) — I like to think about literature. It makes me feel better. Not just any literature, mind you, but one specific book: Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. This book, more than any book I’ve ever read, makes me feel lucky to be alive at this very moment, no matter what type of dire situation — emotional, financial, or otherwise — I may be in at the same time. And I say this completely and totally earnestly.

Here is a brief excerpt — one of the most moving moments in the book, in my opinion:

What is it, Papa?

It’s a treat. For you.

What is it?

Here. Sit down.

He slipped the boy’s knapsack straps loose and set the pack on the floor behind him and he put his thumbnail under the aluminum clip on the top of the can and opened it. He leaned his nose to the slight fizz coming from the can and then handed it to the boy. Go ahead, he said.

The boy took the can. It’s bubbly, he said.

Go ahead.

He looked at his father and then tilted the can and drank. He sat there thinking about it. It’s really good, he said.

Yes. It is.

You have some, Papa.

I want you to drink it.

You have some.

He took the can and sipped it and handed it back. You drink it, he said. Let’s just sit here.

It’s because I wont ever get to drink another one, isn’t it?

Ever’s a long time.

Okay, said the boy.

And now, the poem(draft):

Apocalypse Provisions

O my little sand clam!

[rest-of-poem has been hidden away for the rest of its life. goodbye!]

Because Some Days You Find Yourself Posting Far Too Late.

And today is one of those days, dear readers. I am happy, at least, to see that someone has found this blog by Googling the term “outrageous outfit.” I hope that you were satisfied, at least, by the Hat of Fashion in a post below.

I have little to say for a poemlogue, except for this: rarely, dear readers, rarely do I use The Naughty Words in poems. This is mostly because of An Episode that occurred long, long ago, in the time of my youth, when I wrote a poem which included A Very Dirty Word, which my mother promptly found — how, I know not, as she found no other poems that I wrote which did not include said Very Dirty Words. Nonetheless, it occurred, and there were tears, and admonishment, and the admission that my mother wished I would not write poems with Such Dirty Words. I use said Very Dirty Word in this poem, dear readers, along with several other Dirty Words Which Some May Even Consider Dirtier. Or, as Christina Aguilera might’ve said a few years ago, Dirrtier.

Also: I come from a place where there are many small towns. Many, many small towns. I myself come from such a small town, the name of which I shall not reveal, as anonymity is precious, especially when one uses Such Dirrty Words. I provide you with Google Image’s choice for “small town” — perfect! A photograph of Britney wearing a Very Fashionable Hat (though the rest of her outfit is seriously unfashionable, except for the boots).

Carmina Marion

OMG WTF NAUGHTY!