Huerta

Well, if I ever want to listen to my head implode, I now know what to do.

I just got through recording this week's podcast. It's good. But it isn't up yet. I am waiting for approval.

Approval? You ask...

Yes, this week's show isn't me reading (or singing) my poetry. It's me reading some poetry by my protege Huerta. Dark, intense, erotic, brittle words (none written to me, dammit). But a mentor must play his role properly and in accordance with his place, so I sat in front of the microphone, pouring out her soul and scars left by her passion for and betrayal by other men.

Man, that's brutal-rough. I've got this much to say: If her poetry moves the people who hear and read it 1/10th as much as it moves me...she's set for life and immortality.

Me, I feel like an insect, impaled on a pin in an ether jar.