can we have our ball back?

phenomenal woman

pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

i'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size

but when i start to tell them,

the think i'm telling lies.

i say,

it's in the reach of my arms,

the span of my hips,

the stride of my step,

the curl of my lips.

i'm a woman

phenomenally.

phenomenal woman,

that's me.

i walk into a room

just as cool as you please,

and to a man,

the fellows stand or

fall down on their knees.

then they swarm around me,

a hive of honey bees.

i say,

it's the fire in my eyes,

and the flash of my teeth,

the swing of my waist,

and the joy in my feet.

i'm a woman

phenomenally.

phenomenal woman,

that's me.

men themselves have wondered

what they see in me.

they try so much

but they can't touch

my inner mystery.

when i try to show them,

they say they still can't see.

i say,

it's in the arch of my back,

the sun of my smile,

the ride of my breasts,

the grace of my style.

i'm a woman

phenomenally.

phenomenal woman,

that's me.

now you understand

just why my head's not bowed.

i don't shout or jump about

or have to talk real loud.

when you see me passing,

it ought to make you proud.

i say,

it's in the click of my heels,

the bend of my hair,

the palm of my hand,

the need for my care.

'cause i'm a woman

phenomenally.

phenomenal woman,

that's me.

-maya angelou

on to danville

one two three

late night whisper

conversations over

a wine glass sitting

at my feet and one

two three cigarettes

talking to myself i

don't have roommates

anymore they were

always on the porch

when i got home

we'd sit and talk and

chain smoke and say

things like how was

your day what did

you do how was work

then we'd talk about

our boyfriends and

how they were being

dumb or how they

were sweet they'd

tell me about their

classes and their

professors who

frustrate them or

administrators who

infuriate them or

their mentors who

love them i would

tell them about my

managers who

were mean or co

workers who were

funny or customers

who were rude and

we would vent and

laugh we could

talk we could talk

all night if we wanted

until one of us couldn't

stop yawning and

someone would say

i have to get up

early goodnight

goodnight goodnight

that's how it always

was when i had

roommates now i

come home and dad

always has a glass of

wine for me and when

everyone goes to bed

just sometimes i have

one two three cig

arettes and whisper

to myself.

mojo

voici le tramp

the soft animal of your body

you do not have to be good.

you do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert,

repenting.

you only have to let the soft animal

of your body love what it loves.

tell me about despair, yours

and i will tell you mine.

-mary oliver, wild geese

via pocket full of posies

supercute

orange

reflections of south park on the

adjacent window, on the face of

the performing poet.

light blue crystal moon,

hanging orange half orbs,

cerulean brick walls,

plastic chairs and hairs,

pomegranate cider

thrusting on the middle of

my tongue.

lace and haste,

fuzzy eyelids

for chase,

for john,

for justin,

but really

for shawn.

chalkboard menus and female

roves on an open microphone.

maroon velvet blazers

and band t-shirts

fluffy curly hair oh,

i love.

scribbling and open

sideways and old woman

singing 'it ain't so bad

bein' a bag lady...'

purple walls, backyards,

joe christmas, othello,

first impressions, greek gods,

greek positions,

inhibitions; laying sweetness

down next to herself in a

corner knit room, all alone

with a wing-backed chair,

singing amen.

du louvre

currently recommending

happy days are here again

then you can, yes you can

the new zodiac

this whole new zodiac fiasco has people really freaking out. for me though, one who has never identified very much with capricorn, my new sign, sagittarius (the centaur) is a lot more jamie. now there is debate whether or not the new zodiac applies to those born before 2009. i don't really know. but i always loved these centaurs from fantasia, so i think i'll switch over to the sagi's.

cinderstrewnpacked

memory believes before knowing remembers. believes longer than recollects, longer than knowing even wonders. knows remembers believes a corridor in a big long garbled cold echoing building of dark red brick sootbleakened by more chimneys than its own, set in a grassless cinderstrewnpacked compound surrounded by smoking factory purlieus and enclosed by a ten foot steel-and-wire fence like a penitentiary or a zoo, where in random erratic surges, with sparrowlike childtrebling, orphans in identical and uniform blue denim in and out of remembering but in knowing constant as the bleak walls, the bleak windows where in rain soot from the yearly ajacenting chimneys streaked like black tears.

-light in august

'30s

salem, or

listening to other people's

conversations.

in coffeeshops. on buses.

killing time in salem.

like killing time in tucson.

only this time, alone now.

and winter instead of

summer.

flannel-clad and fitting in.

brick and bare trees

and wreaths

leftover christmas scenes

and indian street names

writing in chinese

restaurants, cold cement,

looking at my breath.

bridges, twinkle lights,

chemeketa street,

downtown parking

and the greyhound station.

"tu es ma soeurâme" i

said to her last night.

and "c'est tous"

our motto.

mad about cate

men can't be friends with women.
they must possess them
or leave them be.

his & hers

erin & chad are little young marrieds.

they are also very dear friends of mine.

check our their blog, his & hers,

chronicling their life as young marrieds.

(their newest post features the womb!)

paper and feathers, or what happens when we meet?

stompin' my feet in high heeled shoes

to whatever music is playin'

i can't remember

swingin' you 'round my waist

hollerin'; laughin'

singing (shouting) rilo kiley

and beatles songs in the streets,

we always forget the words

and show tunes, i'm a theatre kid,

i say. makin' up characters

in the cab; on the street corner.

gettin' drunk on free wine from

art galleries and gettin' kicked

out of parties.

takin' pictures of allie's nests,

wood and paper and feathers

and your hair all woven 'round

the window and foggy winter

window, lily smokin' spliffs,

her ponytail up high; so high.

lookin' in windows, the girl

in the red dress smilin'; talkin'

waking up across town,

catchin' buses with whit as the

sun rises with long shadows

on the downtown sidewalk,

and the holes in my tights

carryin' my heels in my

hands watchin' the sun rises.

oh, it rises.

on drunken eyes

reading simone de beauvoir

in a quiet, empty bar.

white zinfandel and

cigarettes are the

combination.

on tap.

hair that

is trying to grow

out

and

tangled.

gutting out the

house

for to sell with

strangers coming

by

unannounced.

sagging bookshelves

with weight.

dirty fingernails,

knives and plates.

seashell blue walls

with waves and waves

rushing in

on my drunken

eyes.

asleep.

new notebooks,

french verbs,

and mindfulness.

vintage cups and

vintage words

in pictureframes.

seeing things like

one year ago today,

hospitality and the

crescent moon.

moonshine.

frostbite, bend porch,

wes' hope for me.

new smells and long

trips.

learning

awareness and

selflessness and

ultimately

surrender to the

vision.

doris salcedo

her furniture pieces: here

happy new year

to live even one day.

"she had a perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day."

-virginia woolf, mrs. dalloway

eastward in oregon

young mothers in pajamas

snowboarders talking about slopes

ex-cons with ipods

chinese girls with magazines

snow and firs

cumulus clouds

at the back of a rickety bus

reading ferlinghetti,

light in august

and hungry

by the net of suitcases.