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.


A day with the boys

I’m hanging with the boys today. We are making 2 batches of beer and chowder while it snows outside. I’m going to get to say bad words and scratch my butt and burp and tell dirty jokes. It’s fun being a boy for a day and forgetting that in the morning you were crying like a girl for more reasons than you’d like to explain, but no other reason than you feel too much and feelings build up on the rooftops, the steps, the sidewalks like they do outside.

Watch out for bad cheese

I slept like poo last night, that’s right poo. My throat started to hurt again because my boyfriend caught some venus fly disease on the airplane and brought it home and I became so grumpy that I might get sick again that I ate nachos with maybe some questionable cheese and took 6 vitamins and pills and in the middle of the night I kept dreaming of stacking boxes, of aligning lines. I felt I was working. Mostly what I do during the day is a puzzle – fitting stories together and photos together with the one grand centerpiece that we may/or may not get to be creative with. But mostly it’s stacking boxes and that’s what I was dreaming about. That and the bad cheese. And my friend’s husband getting upset with me because we invite people to stay at our house when they are moving across the country. Apparently that’s not OK to invite people to stay at our house while they move across the country. I don’t even think anyone has stayed at our house while they’ve moved across the country, I don’t even know of anyone who’s moved across the country recently.

That was my final straw though, I wouldn’t hear any more from him. It was night time and we were standing in the yard and I turned to walk away and yelled “I’m sorry I love your children!” And threw a purple glittery helmet I was wearing at him across the yard. Shooting star!!!

But I’m going home! Close enough to home to call it home. LBC in less than a month and I can’t stand it – it’s a dream.


An open ladder of tracks
fades into eventual sky.
Any other place the sky is just a sky
here it is always a horizon
beyond gray waters, gray eyes,
a soft dripping sound of more,
the drip of a faucet.

Our hands touch like petals of skin on skin
We lift them up on strings together,
lift our feet over hurdles of iron
while small change jingles between us.

Cool air’s lips, the sun light and cold.
Beside the tracks an abandoned white bucket
oozes rain.
I’m too afraid to look
at what’s someone’s dumped inside.
The truth is
we can’t ever end up here –
– as if down or over makes any difference –
it’s the heavy state at all.
IBM’s skeleton looms as a black kite,
streets laid like the legs of a woman full of runs to the bone.
What’s laid is laid and easy to follow
Deer follow.
Hunters follow the tracks.
I don’t want either.

The whistle unravels,
the train a slate heavy moan moving slow upon us
like a day next year on the calendar.
Our bodies perch in the rocks
like small wooden birds he’s carved. God has a funny way
of playing with toys.
Only when his machine is close enough do we move closer
in defiance.

“Can you imagine being under the wheels,” you say
and then something about Russian children dying
that I don’t catch.

The air pulses up
lifting my skirt skin
hum and vibration
a gallop of steam
a pump and a pump and a pump in me
as if I could chisel a wing free.

“I love you,” you say to me,
“Because the things that mean something to you
mean something to me.”

We watch, still holding hands, the moan pass,
the last touch of a fingertip.
We came and he went,
the clouds rolling low in the Eastern sky
as if we’re under the wheels anyway.

The grumpy barista

I held my coffee through the dark, U-ed around the banister, found the landing in the deepest black, the occasional car passing on the road outside shedding light through the curtain. I did it all without seeing where I was going. How much of what we do is just a bodily memory of having done it before? Knowing the exact spot on the wall of the light switch – how do we know in the dark exactly where the spot on the wall is? Or the first step? Or the second? Or the abrupt right turn?

Some days just the waking up makes you grumpy. It’s the dreams faults, the cars on the road, the sick boyfriend snoring, the cat stealing your covers. Last night I dreamt I went to starbucks and a women working there was so chipper to the customers because that was part of her job, but I showed up and under her breath I could hear her say how much she hated all the people and the customers and the fucking cream. And I was the one listening to the things people say when they think no one can hear them. I was there listening. And I told her I wouldn’t tell anyone and we became friends.

Who else do I write about if not you?


I’m trying to revise a new poem, but my mind keeps wandering off and I can’t concentrate and my computer is staring at me telling me to check all the portals, the internet portals, to distract myself further. I know you’re supposed to sit with things when you are stuck, but I’m feeling this one out, I’m chewing it around in myself right now and I’m not sure how it’s supposed to taste or what form its going to take and so we need space from each other. We need to dip in and then dip out of each other.

I’m wearily putting my hand out and she’s wearily putting her hand out and when we touch it much too uncomfortable. And not she’s awkwardly sitting there with arrows and scratches and notes like I’ve just defaced her, done a really stand-up (not) makeover job like the women at the counter do. I’ve heard sometimes that those women only do half of your face – that’s just mean. And then they make you pay for the other half or if you don’t I suppose you’re walking around the mall like Two-Face.

Pat and I watched a documentary last night about street art. Exit Through The Gift Shop. It was pretty cool for the first part – all these artists going out in the dark and “defacing” buildings and bridges and streets. It was a whole underground art revolution thing and then they sort of started getting famous. They kept putting up more and more images all over Los Angeles, all over the world and the more people saw them, the more they got curious, the more the idea spread.

Shepard Fairey

Like “Obey,” by Shepard Fairey. It’s Andre the Giant’s face. Why he did it – who knows – he liked the face. Now of course, Fairey is being sued by the Associated Press for his Obama Hope poster. They say he stole the image of Obama.

But the most famous street artist in the movie was Banksy. He’s very ellusive and secretive and before this weird French guy started looking for him to film him, he never had his work or his process or anything about him filmed. The whole movie his voice was distorted and his image black-out. He was the real one with something to say about the world. His art was social commentary.

In 2005, he created nine pieces on the Israeli West Bank Barrier. These are only two, but pretty incredible.

It’s unclear by the end of the documentary if the actual movie is a parody of the higher art world – the media involvement, what becomes popular art and how. There are rumors that Banksy himself made the movie to show how easily pop culture can be manipulated. Perhaps
he had the last laugh after all.

But I respect what Banksy has done – gotten his self-image out of the way for his art. He lets the art speak for itself. And that’s the whole point, isn’t it?

Now, maybe, I can go back to my poem…