Archive for January, 2011


Hey all,

Finally my website is about done. The new blog is up and running, so I’m moving over there.


Hope to see you there!


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Bad dog

I saw a lawyer picking his wedgie on his way to court.

I drove behind a NY car with a big placard in the back window that said “bad dog” and had a picture of a pit bull. And then the driver made an illegal U-turn in the middle of main street. And I honked and said “bad dog.”

When I went to buy doughnuts the woman behind the counter kept calling me “hon” which people do around here – even if you are older than them – I wasn’t older than her this time, but she kept calling me “hon” and I sort of hated it. I ain’t your “hon” sprinkles or no.

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The trees, now, are trees
I’m seeing myself seeing.
I’ll always deny that I
kissed her.
I was just whispering
into her mouth
-Stephen Dunn/Slant

This arrived in the mail yesterday from a certain wonderpoet Rebecca. Thanks again, Dear. Had I not know it was coming it would have been very mysterious indeed. No return address, no signature – just a few musical note stickers and a faint postmark of Seattle, WA. Perhaps we should all send postcards with poems on them to random addresses around the country – maybe people would start to read poetry again? Maybe next time I’m at the post office I’ll buy a lot a lot of stamps.

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You could be a poet
You just don’t know it

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There is a man outside snow-blowing China. At least that’s what it sounds like as he’s certainly gone over his allotted snow-blowing time. We got 5 inches buddy, use a shovel, it might be good for you. I find it funny that people around here have snow-blowers. It really doesn’t snow THAT much. I mean we might get one big storm in the winter, but otherwise it’s dust. You could blow it off the sidewalk! (I used an exclamation point…dammit)

I’m blaming my distraction on him – totally on him. I won’t tell him that I’d been sitting here for an hour staring at my poem trying to bridge it, weave it, make the damn thing work and just when I thought I’d opened the door to let my mind step into the words, something pulled me out again: the taste of my coffee, the apps I’m downloading on my stupid ipod that for some reason I brought into the room with me. I’m playing my mom in “words with friends” – basically scrabble, but if I say that they’ll get sued – and she’s kicking my ass so far.

The snow last night was beautiful and silent. The drop of tiny crystals that lit up the dark. I love how snow absorbs whatever light it can and as it falls and collects (this guys is killing me – I think he’s moved on to plowing Russia). Maybe I’ll just shovel snow instead.

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I feel anxious and bored at the same time. Unsure of what to write today if anything. There’s always something to say, but deciding if we want to say it or not is another question. Yesterday I talked to my bestie about writers being loners, solitary beings and I believed it believed it believed it with my bones. And that’s how I want it, how it should be. She’s a guest faculty member at an MFA program here and all the other guest faculty writers are snooty, uptight, my ‘writing cock’ is bigger than your ‘writing cock’ sort of thing. And I realized I never ever ever want to be a part of something like that.

This blog and the other blogs that I traverse through the day are gifts – are true communities where people are not shot down for their ideas, ideas are welcomed. There is no one better or smarter or more creative because we are all ALL of those things in our own ways and they are all accepted. And I thank all of you for giving me such a space of my own – in my solitary room – that at many times is so full of your wonderful energy it makes me feel not alone and alone at the same time. And what a wonderful thing that is. A writer’s dream.

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