i've been remembering my dreams lately. at least, i'm remembering the ones that have to do with poetry. whether it is reading or writing or hanging out with poets or going to readings. often i can't recall details other than i was reading some poems from poet x or y. or i was jotting something down in my notebook. or like last night where i was a guest - again - at some kind of poetry festival and i was asked to submit a poem in a contest. so i did. which is antithetical to my belief and practice of non-competition. i am not a competitive person i think, tho anna will remind me that i am. at any rate, i wasn't even on the list of contenders. i awoke half-pissed that my poem didn't attract notice from anyone. i was also rationalizing the loss as out of my control and that poetry, my poetry, is not predicated on the notion of contest. that there is no ultimate finish to writing. put the final dot to that perfect poem and then take out the pistol and put it to your head since perfection will not be more perfect so that is that. rather than belabor that illusion, i'd rather go forward, maybe sometimes even fall backwards at times, get pissed and continue on.