~~OVARIES & SEQUINS~~

2012-01-31T20:03:00.000-08:00

it began as a dream about a group of strong, sleek men in a field. In a circle. They were passing heavy reams of canvas -- unspooled from angular bolts -- between one another. Looking out at them in the field -- the way their skin gleamed -- I felt envious. "be careful what you wish for," said the dream. In the next scene we are walking along a narrow stone path that borders the sea. The sea is

2011-12-12T09:25:00.001-08:00

Already, it is December. How does this happen? The treesknow some things -- things we do not know. Already, my hairhas grown long, and dark. The windows fill with grayclouds, the absence of missed things, like two hundredversions of your childhood-self pressing the glass cold.I'm never paying attention.Instead, I'm following 8 red winter coatspunctuating the snowscape.From here, their sojourn

2011-11-21T10:06:00.000-08:00

I dreamed that I was in South Carolina, and all the pine trees turned red.I dreamed of wires, connecting us.I dreamed that the insides were all fur, nothing but.

&now (&later)

2011-10-17T10:04:00.001-07:00

one of the things about going places is that you never go to as many places as you want to or do as many things as you want to do. At &now I talked about women and animals and presented research into my question: are they real? Wondering now if I could/should have talked about the different ways to get to that question. I realized, listening to folks discussing metaphor, that so many things are

2011-09-30T23:57:00.000-07:00

of being underwater. of error. of swimming and craft. an elastic wanting...a drift...an ink black wave or spill...tipping upwards. in our sand-buildings, our little huts. I feel like laughing, but I can't.

2011-09-20T20:13:00.001-07:00

I am like a full moon in my belly. I don't want anyone to die. the feral things -- it's all our fault. During the day you can't see in and a night you can't see out. the moon hangs like an axe, a sad axe, an unfinished question. we abandon our companions and open wounds, prisons. we say get a grip but we mean let go.

The Poetry Booth

2011-09-20T18:29:00.000-07:00

On Sunday, we went to Los Angeles and staged The Poetry Booth near the corner on Sunset and Western. This was part of the Los Angeles Road Concerts. It was a really good day. #flickr_badge_source_txt {padding:0; font: 11px Arial, Helvetica, Sans serif; color:#666666;}#flickr_badge_icon {display:block !important; margin:0 !important; border: 1px solid rgb(0, 0, 0) !

2011-08-17T19:20:00.000-07:00

In my mermaid eye, Ibecome an eyelid. liddedglass in the little waves -- skip, skip -- the hearthas it's two halves, it's beloveds, thoseinternalized twins of kissing. Who will whisper, pine siskins zippingthreads for trees, little whiskerson the hillside, over ever water. All along, I wondered. Your eyesdon't look at me. I mean: Don'tlook at me! How raw to be seen --to be realized. Once I was

2011-07-12T17:47:00.000-07:00

they take a polaroid of meand hang it upa woman, well-meaning, usesa ruler to make lines, to dividemy body into partscenter line as my axismy spine, my spindlefrom there she can show mewhere the hip curve is a letter offwhere my waist should whittleit was the day we had to wear leotardsmine was silvereverything felt crumpled like trash

2011-07-02T19:37:00.000-07:00

my head jumps around because this is the way it works. ha ha suddenly I see a head without a body but with legs, jumping. I'm gathering connections. I gather gather gather and this seems to be the only thing I am good at. I may not even be good at it; perhaps it is all I can do. My projects, all of them, take years, decades. the current project is at least ten years old, perhaps more. and then

I am an infected text

2011-06-18T11:56:00.000-07:00

feralscape

2011-06-16T15:56:00.000-07:00

2011-05-20T12:35:00.001-07:00

There is so much for one's attention.after a week a reading,I see pelicans in their hovery, undulating, connect-the-dots. They fly in elegant lines that trace the coast.I see a white haired woman eating bread out of the bin at the grocery store.I see swim flick of a fin on the horizon.I see a spider.The bank of dense and luxurious honeysuckle near the back door at work -- its fragrance is thick

2011-05-09T20:35:00.000-07:00

we are not allowed to make pictures of ourselveslight, and ash, and bonea fine casing like porcelain, enameled pelttether of coal, firebreath and flesh, aspirationinto the dark recess, into stone the word is a discrete texta little map we crawl into

Bellum Letters Revisited

2011-04-21T22:37:00.000-07:00

look at how young these people aredancing makes us humanwhat happens there in the occult desertsthe dissonancethe matrix contains a beleaguered pop star (does she still want to do this?)weapons | commercial pop's infectious repetitionslike we've been here beforelike we are all just trying to find a way to make it bearableit's so hot. who lives here? who gets to live?google anything you want.

Meditation on Plastic

2011-04-18T19:47:00.000-07:00

as if I could press myself into a piece of waxas if it could retain uswe retain itwe make mention of detrituswe accumulate its bitson top of everything: pianosfalling down, ruinedthe place where her lips werethere were lip printsa synthetic rope made into knotsunweaving itself -- unthreaded six thousand petroleum snakesjust six thousand of millionsthere are too many to countI count myself among

2011-04-12T20:07:00.000-07:00

I have been busily writing/making poems, but they are on little scraps of paper all over the place. I will work on posting them here.

On an elevator / of human fingerprints / of the most delicate / fixity

2011-04-04T21:40:00.000-07:00

"a single hurt color and an arrangement in a system to pointing"

2011-04-03T15:34:00.000-07:00

"Nature is a haunted house--but Art--is a house that tries to be haunted."

2011-04-02T12:14:00.000-07:00

Today, I'm thinking that I'll be making a poetic object or poem in response to a favorite line of poetry or poem for NaPoWriMo. I'm thinking of it as a sort of commonplace book/quilting project. Also, the Poetry Booth debuts this Thursday, April 7th. If you are in the area, please come make a poem with us!

2011-03-16T20:49:00.001-07:00

when we all just go about because there is nothing to say

2011-03-08T20:24:00.000-08:00

In so many ways I want to be a different person. I want to be like a sweater you can turn inside out. I want to live on the other side of the world, or in a desert, or a cave. In the middle night, under the blue halo of the porch light and in the gauze of insomnia, our backyard looks like the moon. I want to live there. I do live there. pop music like conversation hearts -- all my tethered veins

Meet Mr. Muffin

2011-02-19T22:43:00.000-08:00

2011-02-11T21:19:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking about the day and how it sliced like a sheet across the sky, the blue water line of the horizon teetering like a saw, like a glimmer of a glass edge. I wonder about my eyes -- about the accuracy of their vision, about the notes I make with my hands, my nails. I am especially attentive to surfaces -- how they are rough or smooth, or hot or cool, and how my own skin is a surface

2011-02-07T20:48:00.000-08:00

The idea is to make the babieswork; they are so photogenicand their lungs are so ripeand pink. All the birds comefalling down, out of the skylike ashes. A little song singsa-long like a little rope-goldlasso. Spinster-whip sinistersisters, muse-twins conjoined.Embryos harvested for theirfossil fuels. Blood is a gas that burns blue as DNA:genetic pyrotechnics. All the pink babies go pop! pop! pop!

2011-02-03T18:23:00.000-08:00

I had a dream last night about resurrection. My hamster was alive; we were wrong about her being dead. I think this was in part a wish-fulfillment dream and in part a sort of shadowy psychic residue left in my brain after watching a sad video of a mother chimpanzee reacting to death of her infant. There are so many ways in which a bird and a girl are similar. Of course we all write too much about

2011-01-23T18:42:00.000-08:00

I know that I am alive and I try not to forget this but to stay in the space of "knowing" is difficult. today on the beach there was all this pink. K and I walked and when we turned around there was this sudden rush and it isn't knowing but feeling and in that moment it was such a relief -- it was so much easier.

2011-01-23T13:15:00.001-08:00

How much do you need to see to know that it is human? Color washed over movement synthesized mottled over colors a hand's border against an arm or cloth all lit up jolly rancher red and green the light and static sour and the girls so shy against their bangs the young hair moving in the shabby glow that says alive.

Haunted/Hunted

2011-01-16T13:34:00.001-08:00

It's obvious: the whole world is haunted. Considerthe disasters and broken spaces, how inside we'reall broken up, a soup of bits like plasticsin the ocean currents. Nothingis really solid, is really whole. We're what coheres, whatwe create. It's how we care that matters. No life truly disappears:we gather and relate, markedges and measure holes.We've traveled through allthis time, all these

New Year

2011-01-11T19:50:00.000-08:00

The days are not the same thoughthey feel that way. It is how I seem:see-through, like a gun can tracea line, a way to see. Seam from eyeto wheel, to a thread that fraysand turns to ink. Edge of a holewhere a paw marks the edgeof our map. A chart of starsfor a fur bird to make a coursethrough blue, black -- all the hueswe love to lack. Our lack is a fencethe same shade as grass. As glassfinds an

2010-12-22T22:44:00.000-08:00

in a fantasy I am fully manifest as animal -- whiskers to tail --licking my paw, sniffing the air. it's like all I ever think about is fantasy, and animals, and how gender is a ghost and we're all haunted whether we like it or not

2010-12-13T20:21:00.000-08:00

everything opens and closes

The Seasons Cemented

2010-11-14T12:45:00.000-08:00

THE BOOKS ARE IN!!!The Seasons Cementedby Amanda AckermanAmanda Ackerman lives in Los Angeles where she writes and teaches. She is co-editor of the press eohippus labs. She is a member of UNFO (The Unauthorized Narrative Freedom Organization) and writes as part of SAM OR SAMANTHA YAMS. Her collaborative book Sin is to Celebration has been recently released from House Press. Her work has also been

the inside becomes the outside

2010-10-19T10:20:00.000-07:00

Today it rains. I am somewhat happy about this. The weather in Santa Barbara can be placid and monotonous. Or else the variations in weather are limited to rearrangements in the cloud cover/fog/marine layer. So rain. It's a thing. An event. It makes noise. Last night we both woke up when we heard something go crash in the house; this morning, I can't discern what could have fallen. Everything

2010-10-15T19:08:00.000-07:00

a world of edges and doorscorners and walls running alongrunning all night the turnof a wheel & all motionis the thing I want continuousline without curvesangles and angles mappedsquare by square I can run all night I can sleepall day I can findthe edge to run alongthe arrival becomesthe return, re-turn, turning.

2010-10-09T14:56:00.000-07:00

some days are bright and sunny and it seems so easy to feel happy and optimistic. & it seems a little bit amazing that feeling happy and optimistic can be easy -- that it persists. the word it makes me think of is resilience. I've been thinking about desire and fantasy, and thinking that desire is like a drive, is like vim. Desire as a site of possibility and health -- that to be in touch with

2010-10-03T11:37:00.000-07:00

Good Faith

2010-09-24T22:45:00.000-07:00

I invented things you discovered& took. Thisis only whathappened, nothow it felt. Always there'sa part of the storywe'd rather leaveout. Motives, arrowsthrown aboutlike trash, like ghosts.I came when youcalled for me:I only wantedto help.

variations on the epithalamium

2010-09-19T15:39:00.000-07:00

I really like this poem by Brenda Shaughnessy. It's called epithalament. A few years ago, a wrote a few poems that I called "epithalamianagrams." I wrote these for friends who were getting married. The idea was to compose a poem that used only the letters in their names -- to use anagrams to symbolize their marriage. Those poems were incredibly satisfying and fun to write.

Recovery is the New Category

2010-09-11T19:54:00.001-07:00

& there are new types of victories. The pill countdown, the pain's clean edge, tart and bright as a razor -- so defined, no longer muffled or suffuse. It dwindles to this hard clean edge the glows like neon in the dark. I am aware of parts of my body & I search for pictures: networks and ribbons. And there are phantoms that wander over my skin, a new type of radiculopathy -- syndrome spreading

2010-09-07T16:01:00.000-07:00

post post-op

2010-09-05T23:56:00.000-07:00

a thing happens like turning down the corner of the page, and the next page is there. a turning down that feels a bit like a seeing through. a counting down of pills. dreams of apple trees growing inside silver, financial cones. a sort of institutionalized kindness that is just good enough. just seeing through. how the disembodied becomes you again. yes, this is my head, my hair. I'm seeing

ghostings

2010-08-13T20:50:00.000-07:00

I like (and like to write about) ghosts.I loved Juliet Cook's piece about poltergeists.And I also really liked this piece by Kate Bernheimer.Also, this is awesome.

post-op

2010-08-12T19:34:00.000-07:00

the whole thing was like a dream, which is probably the most banal thing I could say, but I think some of these drugs make my brain banal, so-. Sensory-wise, the most vivid sensations were those related to temperature and sounds. The machines beep beep beep conversation/announcement of my body -- "my vitals" and the cold air on my skin which felt bare despite the gown and blankets. I felt small

2010-08-08T14:28:00.000-07:00

I survived!

2010-07-27T20:23:00.000-07:00

I wish I could control my feelings. Everyday is like a little hill and its up up up then down down down. One little thing -- like seeing an old note -- and then the head bells and asylum and the pills. Everything is a alive and super -- outsized and fleeting. Gargantuan mists. What is that? Too big to put your arms around it. And the fingers slip through. I think of pain like a knotted rope. One

the body is a ghost

2010-07-15T18:53:00.000-07:00

or host to ghosts -- cells &helicopter text ticky-typeand symptom syntax of everyphysical memory crushedinto tell-all fibersand clues -- fibbers &the glue-clock pushing through. The inside markswhere bone tics two by twolegs arms hands and mirrorssay two heads too. Falseeyelashes and blue mascarathe blue-green veins pulledthrough, suffused with pills:powder dolls. Our little bodyhouse too full --

2010-07-11T18:23:00.000-07:00

I had a dream that a college friend and a grad school friend were both pregnant. We were all living in my childhood home in south carolina. I dream about this house every few months. In this instance, the home was in a somewhat remote location and in a state of semi-abandonment. Room flowed into room, and there were random people there -- acquaintances from college -- and there was a type of war;

Tumblrs

2010-07-05T17:09:00.001-07:00

I am keeping a notebook for the women & animals and are they real project here.I am gathering shiny things from the internets here.

2010-07-05T00:31:00.000-07:00

My difficulty is that______limbs_____dont't fit__________togethercling__________what's left___entrapment__swelland shatter_______sparkledrone______in scattered cellsarticulate clues__________vertebraeI choose to arrest___________my facebehaves_________ in saviors______mirrors

snooki is a poet

2010-06-29T23:58:00.000-07:00

Fear

2010-06-19T22:38:00.000-07:00

The recurring image is that I'm on some sort of conveyor belt heading toward chopping jaws -- serrated, hungry -- and I can't get off. There is too much information. It is too confusing. The system is overwhelmed.There is more bargaining. There is a fantasy of being disembodied, serene. Another fantasy is of being buoyant, tranquil. There is water and sun and warmth.Today, we walked on the bluffs

ANGER

2010-06-11T18:32:00.000-07:00

One of the feelings I have frequently is anger. People in pain are often angry. Pain can be invisible, and for a long time, I tried to make sure it remained invisible: suppressing winces, groans, tears. Those things emerged, of course -- one can't hold those things in forever. There are also the psychological dimensions. I've been told that what I've been doing a lot of is bargaining. I keep

2010-06-08T14:51:00.000-07:00

together, we make our reality real.I forget without you. String littlehellos in the baby's gurgle. Slippersin daylight, all this gray turnedto sparkle. The stillness in bedclothes: wondering wakefulness. The bendin my spine: still here.

2010-06-01T18:48:00.000-07:00

It feels like it is taking forever: this healing. It takes a long time. It's an orange color, like oil. Liquid gold. Rusted iron in the twirls, marshland habitat. Red throated birds call out to us. We're taking forever: too long.

2010-05-30T19:27:00.000-07:00

I dream of being organized. of being out of pain. of having a gut full of crystals: opiate residue. Like the crystals that consumed the box for the oil gusher in the gulf. crystals in the so deep it's so cold. At what point does one decide -- that's it: cut me. It's been 5 months. Is that too long to wait? Not long enough? There are moments when my mind is available, and I feel like myself, and I

2010-05-29T17:03:00.000-07:00

clean scissors, I begfor rescue, for a pin to tend the pain: pinknot newly, slit redthen blue. In purpleliquids I storethe pulse: thumpthump in the darknarcotics. Fizz-winged, my fissuresshore: approachthe winking beaconof a still-life body:smooth and porous, pried free from every pinching reign: stungveins and stony ventricles.

The Poetry Booth

2010-05-24T21:42:00.000-07:00

click click click

2010-05-19T14:51:00.001-07:00

2010-05-13T20:28:00.001-07:00

A few kind words can go a long way. Each time someone is kind to me, I feel like breaking. The mirror silence of a still pool: ripples the weight of great lakes. Their glaciers staggered down. We measured the mountains. This small sadness I can hold in my hands, taste it on my tongue. Salt showers and the glow inside bones -- lit up, electric signs. The desert is the pain of home, the home away.

Don't say "spill," say "gusher."

2010-05-02T20:20:00.000-07:00

I cant stop thinking about the oil, the pressure, the spindletop, and how deep below the water's surface the top of the well is, and then the depth of the well itself. I watch videos and there are pop-up ads for free oil stock reports and the coast guard GI bill. The crooks are hiding in plain sight. On the major news network, the reporter talks over the academic. There are so many things that we

Things You Can Do with a Ghost

2010-04-27T16:26:00.000-07:00

Go all the way up the hillto the tippy-top. Hold yourglass handstill. Pour inkinto all the corners. Inventthe perfectcircle. Kissthe friends you usedto know. Holdyour breath inside the house. Sewthe door withan answer. Seeinto the mirrorbefore you seeyourself. Changea bone to a bowlof milk. Leavea note so the doctorknows just whereto go, where to open.

From the things that are good file

2010-04-22T23:37:00.000-07:00

Poems! On dresses!!!Check out Katrina Rodabaugh's Dresses/Objects project at her Flickr.

C6/C7

2010-04-08T09:25:00.000-07:00

2010-04-02T00:07:00.000-07:00

Fairy Tale

2010-04-01T23:26:00.000-07:00

In the window-dome, wheel-stripethe circle, merry merry we allfall down. Dusty wheel-spokesspinning and your little dog too.The ear is flat, the glass cold.Rain drops there, flatteningthemselves. The bone heldthrough the bars is skinnylike a long lens zooming out.The details camouflagethe crooks, their fat tearsglitter like diamonds.

just can't get enough

2010-03-31T17:11:00.001-07:00

Elisa Gabbert is talking about clichés in a sort of follow-up post to her discussion of poetry moves. Thinking about cliches and the notion of something being overused made me think about how much I love repetition and abundance and frequency in poems. For instance, I love all of the dashes in Dickinson's poetry, and I especially love the way they look in the handwritten fascicles. Despite their

2010-03-26T13:48:00.001-07:00

Things have been difficult to talk about. Like talking underwater or trying to talk during sleep. These are the metaphors that come to me over and over again. My mind is underwater; it's in a fish tank, water artificially blue and antiseptic. All I want to say, over and over again is I'm sorry. The refrain I cling to when I'm afraid. I'm sorry for being afraid. At night, narcotic waves of salt

on Happiness

2010-03-23T18:40:00.000-07:00

For awhile now, we triedso hard. They write booksabout slipping down, slip-upsderailed, catch-as-catch canand then the sun coming up:things we thought were missingwere always there. We'reso lucky that way. So luckythat it doesn't make sense.

fas_ten

2010-03-07T21:49:00.000-08:00

injury

2010-02-24T19:38:00.000-08:00

I experience a little burst of optimistic extroversion about twenty minutes after I take Vicodin. I wish this feeling lasted longer. The chemical nature of the feeling intrigues me. Because it is a feeling... like a mood...not a sensation. The aspect of my injury that is the most curious to me is not the pain, but the lack of strength...the weakness and the absence of a reflex in my right ankle.

2010-02-22T20:50:00.000-08:00

link

Now these are some rules that I can get behind...

2010-02-22T12:19:00.000-08:00

Kate Zambreno, who blogs at the supremely awesome Frances Farmer is my Sister, posts some "rules for writing":1) Fuck around a lot when you're young. Do things for EXPERIENCE. Have lots of traumatic toxic love affairs. The best way to really get at the psychology of others is when they're suspended over you.2) Continuing with the idea of fucking up, have at least one total to complete breakdown

2010-02-20T23:38:00.000-08:00

2010-02-14T12:09:00.000-08:00

Alexander McQueen

2010-02-12T13:14:00.000-08:00

2010-02-08T20:36:00.000-08:00

Blood and Feathers

2010-02-06T01:44:00.000-08:00

Ana Mendieta

2010-02-04T22:14:00.000-08:00

"Perhaps I am not I even if my little dog knows me but anyway I like what I have and now it is today."

2010-02-04T14:03:00.000-08:00

from Everybody's AutobiographyGertrude SteinETA:came across this image & was struck by the way in which it is a sort of mirror inverse of the above pic of GS, ABT, and Basket. Thank you, internet, for the weirdness.

Delirious Hem

2010-02-04T12:01:00.000-08:00

My post on feminism & poetry is up at Delirious Hem. I also share some items from my commonplace book: Women and animals: Are they real?image: "Parts" by Lorna Simposn

revolution grrrl style keeps on keeping on

2010-02-03T22:37:00.000-08:00

Never before had I felt that feminism was something I could be so much a part of. It sounds like I'm talking about being part of the Riot Grrrl movement itself, but really, just the history of it, and the fact that it even existed, makes me very excited, and proud, to be a girl, and to be who I am.

Interesting post over at the bitch blog

2010-02-03T20:54:00.000-08:00

Problem is, women have been working on these issues for decades without the recognition that comes from high-profile book deals or NYT Mag write-ups. Should we be thankful when these issues are covered by mainstream media or annoyed that our work has once again been relegated to the margins of the larger movement?alos, Solastalgia

2010-02-02T10:38:00.000-08:00

Juliet Cook's piece at D'hem is one fantastic readalso enjoyed Kate Durbin's piece. The spectre is a teenage girl!

Delirious Hem

2010-02-01T22:01:00.000-08:00

Forum 2 is on this week at DHEM. Go on. my piece will be up on Thursday.

The Feminine Monarchie

2010-01-31T19:41:00.000-08:00

source&Regarding the bee, Keith Thomas, in his Man and the Natural World(1983), recounts the following anecdote: “The ancient parallel between human society and the beehive was never more popular than in the Stuart period, when numerous published treatises on bee-keeping gave as much attention to the insects’ political virtues as to their practical utility. [...] Writers laid heavy emphasis on

2010-01-31T19:39:00.000-08:00

"Red Meat Nation" by Nigel Holmes

Bees & Women Compared

2010-01-31T19:23:00.000-08:00

From Richard Remnant’s 1637 classic, A Discourse or Historie of Bees.via Theoria

You know what is cool?

2010-01-30T14:44:00.000-08:00

When people write about something they like. I love that. Elisa Gabbert has a cool post up about why she likes poems with "ideas." You should check it out. I'm going to try to write about why I like what I like in poems. It changes, and I often feel clumsy when I try to explain why I like something *so much* because the words -- especially in prose -- seem so slippery in comparison to the thing I

2010-01-28T16:52:00.000-08:00

You know who is smart? Barbara Jane Reyes. Since I've been working two jobs, I haven't been as "active" blogging, poeming, editing/publishing, and I'm so amazed by and grateful for bloggers like Barbara who have been doing the blogging thing for YEARS now, and how they just continue to write thoughtful, considered posts day after day, week after week. They just put it out there -- for all us --

Do you Love Love?

2010-01-28T16:09:00.000-08:00

The you should head over to kitchen table: women of color pressed for knowledge and get yourself a copy of the gorgeous book Alexis made.

Gender & Poetry

2010-01-27T11:01:00.000-08:00

Jessica Smith always has interesting things to say, and her recent post about women and publishing has sparked some discussion over at the Harriet blog. Craig Santos Perez (whose post "'Afro Picks,'" Publisher's Weekly, & the Racialized Pun" is a must-read) asks, "do you think women’s self-promotion in poetry differs from men’s self-promotion?" Here is what I posted in the comments:The men who

2010-01-18T15:09:00.000-08:00

the pain economy

2010-01-14T17:01:00.000-08:00

"On a scale of 1 to 10, rate your level of pain."

robotic animals and women

2010-01-07T17:35:00.000-08:00

2009-12-31T18:23:00.000-08:00

2009-11-27T20:31:00.000-08:00

I dream that I've written essays

2009-10-24T21:05:00.000-07:00

One of the dreams was about a paper I'd written called "The Fog of Scholarship." The thesis was that scholarship creates a fog around the subject, and sometimes it fills a book or a room. Or else it is there like a ghost in conversations. In the paper I called appearances of the fog in conversations "ghostings," and talked about how the language of scholarship is both guest and host which made

2009-09-25T21:19:00.000-07:00

dead dove when I opened the door...on its back...white feathers...red feet, curled red, nails...in my hand...but is it dead? eyelid, gold eye, eyeslide. the chest is moving. I'm looking looking looking for breath. It is alive, just barely, on the brink. I feel its pulse. I show it to J. "It's still breathing." Looking closely, J says "no, no, that is just your hand moving." It was my own pulse I

AfterPlath

2009-09-25T21:13:00.000-07:00

wound the old hole fashiona thing sparkling, yellow jacketsting-wings, plastic sheep bobbinghorizon-green, propeller-stungkitty hanging synthroid _________shudder cupboardclean cat, claws pink: meat-makingmud-hooves, cork-screw squeal, squid's ink in a jarthe dead dove's eyegold in her slit

~*~OVARIES & SEQUINS~*~

&now (&later)

The Poetry Booth

I am an infected text

feralscape

Bellum Letters Revisited

Meditation on Plastic

On an elevator / of human fingerprints / of the most delicate / fixity

"a single hurt color and an arrangement in a system to pointing"

"Nature is a haunted house--but Art--is a house that tries to be haunted."

Meet Mr. Muffin

Haunted/Hunted

New Year

The Seasons Cemented

the inside becomes the outside

Good Faith

variations on the epithalamium

Recovery is the New Category

post post-op

ghostings

post-op

the body is a ghost

Tumblrs

snooki is a poet

Fear

ANGER

The Poetry Booth

Don't say "spill," say "gusher."

Things You Can Do with a Ghost

From the things that are good file

C6/C7

Fairy Tale

just can't get enough

on Happiness

fas_ten

injury

Now these are some rules that I can get behind...

Alexander McQueen

Blood and Feathers

"Perhaps I am not I even if my little dog knows me but anyway I like what I have and now it is today."

Delirious Hem

revolution grrrl style keeps on keeping on

Interesting post over at the bitch blog

Delirious Hem

The Feminine Monarchie

Bees & Women Compared

You know what is cool?

Do you Love Love?

Gender & Poetry

the pain economy

robotic animals and women

I dream that I've written essays

AfterPlath

~~OVARIES & SEQUINS~~