These are two of my better "literary" poems; no screaming skulls or red mummies, just wry reflections on life. In "About the Type," I pause to reflect on elements all around me that I ordinarily don't notice. In "A Dying Poet, Mindful of His Legacy, to a Visiting Admirer," I imagine what a great poet says to a young writer who has come to interview him in his hospital room. The young person hopes to record some brilliant, artistic, insightful last words, but what is really on the venerable poet's mind?
 
I note with interest that the main page of this issue features a photo of Neil Diamond smoking a big stogie. Never thought I'd be published in a magazine with Neil Diamond on the cover...

 

(Hey, can we get an Emoticon smoking a stogie?)

---

http://ozment.livejournal.com