uta hagen

we must overcome the notion that we must

be regular... it robs you of the chance to be

extraordinary and leads you to the mediocre.

january twenty-sixth

i feel as if being brave is finally paying off.

i feel as if things are about to happen.

i feel that because, i am about to go do them.

i feel as if when the sadness has emptied,

there is all this goodness left.

split ends of long hair

i've been craving for days some thoughtful

time with books and paper and coffee -

to scribble down the poem from friday

night that got lost in those few frame

moments before sleep as the evening's

wine swirls into my ears, convincing me

i'll remember the line of verse tomorrow

in the bright morning light and by that

time it's lost, gone forever in dreamland,

hardly remembered, not enough for even

half a sentence. something about her

beautiful, sad eyes the way i saw them

on her, her sitting curled up in a loosened

men's shirt, talking, putting her hair

behind her ear.

now i'm sitting here being interrupted

by an angel who keeps asking me

"did you try?" and my lack of bravery

keeps my mouth silent, i can't say

no, it hurts, so i stare at her and she

knows what i can't speak. writing and

music and acting, she hits all the nails

on the head, giving me all this free

advice but most of all exposing myself

to myself, the things i've already known.

sitting down to coffee only moments

before engaging me in conversation,

then rising halfway through it and

carrying herself out at the close, as

if coming just to talk to me.

"you should write a novel," she says.

"yes," i says.

"if something is supposed to happen,

it will," he says. my father on the

phone today. and i don't know what

it all means, or if it means anything

at all. so i come home, to an empty

house and whisper things to myself

and try to search in my ears for all

the lost poems that slip as i sleep,

hoping someday they'll all come

back to me. i think about her

beautiful, sad eyes and concentrate

on her image and shape and the

way i felt happy. the way his chin

and smile and eyes and hair are all

new again. and how the porch

felt old again. and the more i think

the more i'm afraid i'll lose it all

as if just to scribe something makes

it all real and without words on the

page, it feels as if it never happened.

isadora's blush

"you were once wild here.

don't let them tame you."

*isadora duncan

playing

a streetcar named desire

romeo and juliet

lysistrata

the heidi chronicles

talk to me like the rain...

of mice and men

spike heels

the boys next door

blanche

juliet

lysistrata

heidi

woman

curley's wife

georgie

sheila

backyard

shift artist's collective update

the shift artists collective has updated their website to include the most recently added members including tin santos, poet john paul, mc draperies, trent nelson and ...dun dun dun... yours truly. you can read all about me here.

the king

every man must decide whether he will

walk in the light of creative altruism or

in the darkness of destructive selfishness.

holiday

a cup of coffee on a littered desk.

light green blankets pulled up

around face. a glowing grey of

the pouring rain sky. sheer

curtains near a lampshade slide.

a small violently flickering flame

finally settling down, illuminating

the knick knacks and keys and

a sleeping frown. the sound of

the typewriter, the sound of

waking up. the sound of a kiss,

suspicious of growing up.

biting my lip, crinkling my

toes, touching your hair,

touching your nose. sitting in

a chair, listening to the rain

on the tarp, to bob dylan on

the mouth harp. stacking books,

waiting for you to wake,

fingering the pages, wondering

'bout hemingway. putting down

the typing, picking up the page,

scribbling all my notes,

singing rain to go away.

cushion backed couches in the onion room

sitting sandwiched between two brunette

girls hair curling 'round their ears,
golden mahogany guitars under their
right arms strummin' harmonizin'
singin' 'bout soldiers with their own
combat boots tapping the low low floor.
dark black fingernails and a room that
smells like onion teeth but beautiful
sounds urging from their lips breathlessly
swirling into my own curly-haired edged
ears, sitting quietly with my eyes to the

ceiling just thinkin' just hardly wonderin'

emptying my mind looking at the sun

coming in through the kitchen window

and no more thoughts a raspy voice

coming from the girl in the boots

sayin' sweet olive tree and honey bee

and the other golden cheeks auburn

eyebrows and a ring on her middle

finger. i feel my teeth with my tongue

and my own onion breath, put the

baby's breath on my head, sit back let

my eyelashes curl in rising scales.

obsessions

french films

bob dylan

avocados

layered sweaters

gay pride

listening to voices

through thin walls

january jan

calender

maybe having goals this time is

a good thing. maybe i can sing

loudly and maybe i can move

away. maybe i can take beautiful

photographs and be happy and

put on a play and cut my own hair.

maybe this time i'll make a list of

the things i've done and not the

things i have yet to do. and

maybe that is really important.

i think it is really important.

maybe this time i will know my

own face and my own feet and

my own strong legs. maybe i will

buy a calender. maybe i will speak

in french, and on the breath and

maybe i will speak up. maybe i

will learn that i can always be

learnin' and that interesting places

are just around the corner.