I am erasing myself from my job- I redid all the form letters on the computer and took my name off all of them.

I burned a CD of my personal files and 'poof' I am gone.

My work email has no mail; saved, sent, or trashed.

Anything personal there will be removed and taken home by Wednesday afternoon. Thursday is supposed to be my last day (just shy of four years). If I get done tomorrow with all I plan to do, I will not go in on Thursday.

It's a strange sensation, to disappear.

In the meantime, there are too many poets on the planet right now- or maybe there aren't enough. I can barely keep up with the books I have and yet keep getting more- I devour them like a gluttonous dog, in big wet bites, all at once, too much for my mouth to hold so the words dribble down my chin, sloppy and wet.

There's a pretty picture.