Hard copy.

Today, after having bagels with my daughter and grandson, buying overpriced hair product, and overpriced organic butter, I ventured (read: slunk) into my office to print my poems, so I'd be able to shuffle my work around on the physical plane. I don't have a working printer at home, you see, which is kind of absurd, for a writer. However, I do have a very good relationship with the people who work the printers up at my local Office Max. Recently, one of them let me print six copies of a poem for free. Talk about your poetic license.

I brought a ream of recycled paper with me to the office, loaded up the HP, and started printing. Because I couldn't be bothered to actually look at the documents I was printing, I'm sure I've printed several versions of the same poems, compilations I assembled for readings, and so on. A ream of paper later, I have the writing I've done for the last several years in a big pile of wow. Wow. A whole ream of it.

This is step one in starting to revise, organize, and assemble Imploding Elegy or Suburban Elegy or Suburban Ode or something like that. I think I might need to come up with some system for sorting through all of it first--what a nightmare/thrilling project. If I have to move it from place to place, I may need a llama.