It’s 4 a.m. and I am waiting for the singing of the lawn sprinklers.  It’s nearly time for Morning Joe.  I have been thinking about Minnesota, and what it has cost me to have left my great start as a poet there in 78 to come back to Colorado and take care of my mother.

A daughter always feels she has to do that.  I left behind my career– something irreplaceable that I can never reclaim.  Everyone I knew in Minnesota has gone on and done amazing things, published amazing things.  I wonder if any of the writers published by the press I just withdrew a submission from felt the same way about their books, if any of them felt dissed and forced to sell out to someone they didn’t trust to have the book appear.

I don’t know why I didn’t trust it, except that my ability to trust left me a very long time ago.  I am at this writing extremely tired.  I believe in my beautiful book and I wasn’t about to let someone tell me how it should be different from what it is.  I know that I am at least as good and probably better than the Minnesota poets coming up after me published by that very press.

How can I not care about what happened?  People who weren’t really true poets in my not so humble opinion have found niches, gotten grants.

I wonder if it’s me?  But I don’t care.  It’s late– in the year, and in life, and we all have the convention to think about.  I heard that some Texas judge is predicting civil war if Obama is reelected.  Well, get out your muskets, then.

I am tired.  My life feels far too burdensome to keep putting up with.  Perhaps I have to let my Minnesota years, my aching for a rowhouse on Ramsey Hill, all the longing to go back to reclaim something I think is there for me, is not there.  It’s all competitive as hell.  There are too many writers, too many literary egos, and The Loft is no longer a small second floor of an old building on the East Bank of the Mississippi.

I am tired, and my pride will kill me.