January 2012
2 posts
(OR ANOTHER)
how nature is layered on the manmade or how man interferes with nature and fails. something about lines and boundaries and naming. something about the ugly being beautiful. something about how what’s dirty is actually crystal clear.
November 2011
5 posts
Xs MAY SHINE WITH STARTLING CLARITY
X 12/9 NE 0 1/8
X 9-20 0 0 FL
X 9-10 0 0 DF
X 9-10 0 0 DE
X 911 NEO ...
2 15 10 75 40
4 24 17 88 44
7 14 9 87 39
all .3 100 73 28
don’t try to fool yourself because you...
October 2011
1 post
January 20, 2003 by J. Spahr
Some say thronging cavalry, some say foot soldiers, others call a fleet.
Some say an army of cavalry, others of infantry, others of ships.
Some say horsemen or footmen or rowers.
Or a troop of horses, the serried ranks of marchers, a noble fleet, some say.
Some say one hundred and twenty Challenger Two tanks, or infantry, or a fleet of ships.
There are those who say a host of cavalry, MIA2...
September 2011
2 posts
“In the inside there is sleeping, in the outside there is reddening, in the...”
– GERTRUDE STEIN
July 2011
4 posts
June 2011
7 posts
VI.
Flooded: everything disappears Flash: the past. The future sometimes, if we let it Night: The presence of your absence Head: south, then north then west
Neon: tights Wave: on the beach growing up; the start White: Out. Noise. Radiation: heat, energy the things we share Light comes in many forms.
BERNADETTE MAYER'S WRITING EXPERIMENTS →
* Experiment with writing in a group, collaborative work: a group writing individually off of each other’s work over a long period of time in the same room; a group contributing to the same work, sentence by sentence or line by line; one writer being fed information and ideas while the other writes; writing, leaving instructions for another writer to fill in what you can’t describe;...
THE LOVER OF MAPS BY SHERMAN ALEXIE
She unfolds and folds me directs me to an exact place on the reservation where nothing is ever written down. She tells me our stories are maps told on a scale larger than can be held by our clumsy hands.
May 2011
7 posts
LIFE IN OAKLAND SO FAR
[so good.]
SOME THINGS
I.
My father has cancer. I was on my lunch break when my mother called. I forgot my apple core on the sidewalk where I was sitting in my haste to find a better place to cry.
II.
I’m almost done with my first year of graduate school. My life looks a lot different than it did a year ago, in ways that I wasn’t anticipating. This is mostly a good thing.
III.
I am in love. This is not...
April 2011
10 posts
WORK IN PROGRESS
III. We are waiting for the light Night begins with morning mourning begins with longing longing is a cycle of silence Turntables click, heavy lidded eyes nod at firetrucks, small children and sandals the sun rises straight over our heads Nothing has happened The folds of want are gentle smell like our mothers look something like a second glance. IV. A second glance pulls back ...
KNOW YOU CAN COUNT ON ME
But “dissolution,” at least according to some... →
A lengthy but stunning interview with J.D. McClatchy in the Paris Review
WatchHere is a video from the ending event of the Place for Writers Poetry MFA Professional Development Program. I read with friends, colleagues and writers from the community who participated in the program. I’m at about 17min in the first video, but you should watch the whole thing. I felt a lightness in my chest after the whole thing—lots of great writing and community that night....
WHATEVER: A PANTOUM
WALK DON’T RUN PLEASE DON’T FORGET PLEASE THANKS FORGET MEANING THANKS ALRIGHT MEANING FOREVER ALRIGHT NEVERMIND FOREVER RUN NEVERMIND WALK
A FEW (MIS)UNDERSTANDINGS
How when waking without glasses the cars on the freeway are birds flying past the window so large and so many * The dance people do with each other on the sidewalk. They move to the left, no, to the right, then left again, or maybe right * The way a heart leaps and then stops when you request olive juice for your dirty martini * Springing forward, falling back
* I used to wish at...
March 2011
4 posts
CARTE DU TENDRE →
February 2011
14 posts
you were hotter to me than the sun that burned me...
all my devotion compelled by an ocean of all the...
THE YEARS FROM YOU TO ME BY PAUL CELAN
Your hair waves once more when I weep. With the blue of your eyes you lay the table of love: a bed between summer and autumn. We drink what somebody brewed, neither I nor you nor a third: we lap up some empty and last thing. We watch ourselves in the deep sea’s mirrors and faster pass food to the other: the night is the night, it begins with the morning, beside you it lays me...
