It was beautiful and worth the trip to D.C.
ONE MILLION BONES
3
Sep 12
SICK KITTEN
Come back more hungry.
Sicker than ever.
This is me when I wake up.
Not flattering, but the truth.
13
May 12
MOM DAY!
Because you say I don’t smile enough. Here is a monster one from SF to you. Hearts x 458374598234598723459082734507
19
Mar 12
LIFE ON MARS REVISITED
So I worked the Creator’s Project Saturday at the “Life on Mars Revisited” showing the last half of the day. Anyway, there was this little family that walked in the showing, and the little girl was so eager to see the “movie”. When she left she couldn’t close her mouth. She looked like this and I haven’t been able to get the image out of my mind. It was hilarious.
16
Mar 12
CREATOR’S PROJECT
I get to help out at the Creator’s Project this year thanks to a friend.
I can’t even begin to explain how excited I am. So grateful. Everyday.
Not to mention seeing the Yeah Yeah Yeahs while getting paid. BONUS.
It will be amazing! Passion NEVER fails. End of story.
More Info: The Creator’s Project
18
Feb 12
WRECK ON ICE (recognize)
“Shell smashed, juices flowing
Wings twitch, legs are going,
Don’t get sentimental, it always ends up drivel.
One day, I am gonna grow wings,
A chemical reaction,
Hysterical and useless”
I just love those lines so much.
15
Jan 12
TO THINK
I have a pack of letters,
I have a pack of memories.
I could cut out the eyes of both.
I could wear them like a patchwork apron.
I could stick them in the washer, the drier,
and maybe some of the pain would float off like dirt?
Perhaps down the disposal I could grind up the loss.
Besides – what a bargain – no expensive phone calls.
No lengthy trips on planes in the fog.
No manicky laughter or blessing from an odd-lot priest.
That priest is probably still floating on a fog pillow.
Blessing us. Blessing us.
Am I to bless the lost you,
sitting here with my clumsy soul?
Propaganda time is over.
I sit here on the spike of truth.
No one to hate except the slim fish of memory
that slides in and out of my brain.
No one to hate except the acute feel of my nightgown
brushing my body like a light that has gone out.
It recalls the kiss we invented, tongues like poems,
meeting, returning, inviting, causing a fever of need.
Laughter, maps, cassettes, touch singing its path -
all to be broken and laid away in a tight strongbox.
The monotonous dead clog me up and there is only
black done in black that oozes from the strongbox.
I must disembowel it and then set the heart, the legs,
of two who were one upon a large woodpile
and ignite, as I was once ignited, and let it whirl
into flame, reaching the sky
making it dangerous with its red.
1
Dec 11
PEN + NONHAND
Promise to not second guess.
Promise to do rather than talk.
Promise to write rather than say.
Promise to carry my cage until I decide when,
But not to cage myself in the process.