Sunday, January 31, 2010

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.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

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.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

isadora's blush

"you were once wild here.
don't let them tame you."
*isadora duncan


a streetcar named desire
romeo and juliet
the heidi chronicles
talk to me like the rain...
of mice and men
spike heels
the boys next door

curley's wife

Monday, January 18, 2010

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.


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.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

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.


french films
bob dylan
layered sweaters
gay pride
listening to voices
through thin walls

Monday, January 11, 2010


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.