good morning. i am tired. reading hemingway makes me want to cry from how beautiful it is. it makes me so sad when i love a writer and i found out that they killed themselves. i think a lot of other writers would be with me on this. it is hard to think of these people as mentors and then they go and blow their heads off or stick them into ovens or drug or drink themselves to death, etc etc. there really is no relation between the art and the person. which is kinda sad but also good, i guess.

good morning. i havent posted in a while. i'm sure my readers are just dying to know how my pumpkin cream cheese muffins went over during t-day; well let me tell you, they didn't! it was a heinous recipe and i threw them all out. anyway.

i have little to say: i am typing it all into a story. my wrist hurts and my computer shakes as i type. today is a day is a day and i am in it in it in it... christmas is coming!

oh yay. my boyfriend is studying for finals. soon i will actually have to calculate my students grades. and his big new leather chair keeps swiveling and out of the corner of my eye i think it is a dark cloaked figure. dammit!

it is 9:48 am, but the post prolly tells u that. okay dunzo for now

hellllloooo???

Really early morning post.

Brain still in haze.

Hear sounds of highway.

Day presses light feathers

onto face, to wake me.

Voices outside

Literally biting into

skin like day is a Peach

Heavy morning glazed with

thought and motorcycle

dream revving, corner of

logic and fantasy finding.

Drifting into personality.

Spiritual succulence.

The day is a map and

I am a carefully placed X.

Nourishment

I've decided I really like blogging. It's perfect for the vain shy person, for the narcissist with an inferiority complex, for the egomaniac who would prefer not to be one. Though I am not saying I am any of these things. But it is perfect for those people.

This morning I have nothing to say: but just instantly typing on my blog gives me something to say, to YOU, imaginary listener in my head who might one day become a reality.

I have decided that the holidays, for me, anymore, are solely about food. And that is fine. Food can be very spiritual. It's physical nourishment--spirituality is all about nourishment. And the nourishment comes in all different forms--whether it's the pistachio and dried cranberry biscotti dipped in white chocolate and sprinkles my mom makes (u jealous??) or the turkey wrap your boyfriend makes (my boyfriend makes) or the chips and dip the other people make, the people who may or may not be Mexican, or those who definitely aren't. Think of what you eat and how it defines you. I eat hard chips dipped into salsa--I like the crisp, the honey color of them, I like the breathy textures between the two spaces. Foods I don't like based on texture: that gunky part of the middle tomato (who likes that? if you do you must be a serial killer); also macaroni and cheese and scallopped potatoes kind of gross me out. Even pickles sometimes get to me--their translucence.

This holiday I am making pumpkin cream cheese muffins for my boyfriend's parents for Thanksgiving. I figured they would enjoy something with a lump of something gooey inside--that is just what I gathered from spending some time in their house. Also I am making them with Splenda--but I don't tell anyone this. If they knew they were getting gipped out of hundreds of calories they might be mad at me.

I have not started holiday shopping yet. I want to do it all in one fell swoop--I want to fall, and in the process swoop up all of the presents. I might have to be at Walmart to do this. That is fine. Miley Cyrus has a new line of clothes there that are really freaking cute, except her skinny jeans might not even fit my arm.

Today I have to teach--actually, no I don't, they are just workshopping, so they teach themselves--and then I am ... probably going to write more. Maybe I will just keep posting and posting and posting, until all the internet space is mine!! Mine!!! I want it all!!

Actually I just could really go for some holiday food. Some stuffing. Cranberry. Makes me feel all pilgrimmy. And then I want to smoke a pipe. Yes, that is my goal for this holiday--smoke a pipe, and maybe play in some snow. And drink a spiked warm drink--can be anything. Anything except egg nog, which feels like something my body should want to rid itself of rather than imbibe.

That is all. Ending.... right..... ish..... now. Okay, now. No, now. Now. Now.

Goodbye.

Saturdays are spiffy: Old bones

Today is a Saturday. I am deciding to write some prose, that is not a short story. Yes, I just put a comma there, and it was not necessary. People think that just because you are a writer you have to be grammatically correct. I think because I am a writer I do not have to be. And I encourage my students to do the same. This might not be so great for them, in others opinions, but to me what matters most is that they are able to manipulate and control language themselves and not vice versa. WHEW. I love to talk about teaching.

Jonathan, my boyfriend, watches football, while I type, listening to Titanic songs in the background. There was a time when I was in love with Leonardo DiCaprio. That time has passed.

Since I didn't do much interesting today, I will talk about an interesting memory I have. Actually, no, that's a lie. I did something interesting today. I went to Starbucks with Jonathan and got a decaf nonfat latte and we shared a pumpkin scone. I felt like those old couples you see (I see) at Border's who get decaf nonfat lattes (probly) and share some type of scone or some other denture friendly (I just spelled that dencher, and then stared at it perplexed for a few seconds!! haha) pastry, though most pastries are denture friendly. Sometimes I think Jonathan and I are "old bones." Don't know where I heard this expression; but I know I have. How do you know if you're old bones? (Maybe it's an "old soul"; same diff). This is how you know:

If when you wake up in the morning you feel a special attachment to mornings, and you feel that just being alone in mornings fills you up.

If when you get into a fight with a person you feel like there are lots of littler people inside of you all fighting back with their tiny fists, and that you have to listen to them, even though some of them might be wrong.

If when you see something wonderful or do something wonderful or even experience anything that is intense for a long enough duration it makes you want to cry. You feel alone and overexposed and it is strangely freeing.

That's it. I bet everyone could say they are "old bones." I doubt it though.

Enough! What is going on in the football game? I wonder if there will ever be a) a female football league and b) a female announcers. The TV here is so far away and so small. Tonight I am going to the movies to see Pirate Radio. Hopefully it's good!! I don't know who to end blogs/anything. I'm going to make it easy and just stop.

ps was editing the blog and jonathan says: "that guy's name is Service!!!" yes, service. COOL

empty calorie -- lots of poetry, and no, i don't edit

The large and broken feeling of being leftover in my heart
Reminds me of the huge hunks of space in which life is left to be lived
And the foolish prayer that everything I have exposed will return to me, someday.
If I had something, it’s gone now. Everything flutters in goodbye, to me, to me.
I like to wait for the raw moments, though they are only raw in remembering,
What the prickle of discomfort must have felt like, back when the light danced on my forehead.
It is the sheen of art that has lifted you out of yourself, and now placed you back in,
Angrily you sit, realizing you don’t fit, unwilling to pretend any longer
Afraid to move in either direction, you calm yourself by taking long, humourless bites out of the present
But you forget how to taste anything, and the sound is like a drum, and your body is the meat being hit, over and over.
The unnaturalness fed to you by the crippling sun’s stare, drinks you dry and coughs your organs,
Back up, the sludge of your body slow and steep, upon which littler things fall, sliding down you,
You listen to the sound of objects ricocheting, only they are not objects, they are your own thoughts,
Which have taken over everything, representing how residual it is to be you.

Art is Broken

Don’t sing to me with that face
It is too often dancing, and I am too often crying
You’ve wrecked what it is like to be you
I have nothing else to wheel myself around in
So I imagine you and I to be lovers
Dancing somewhere where lovers do not exist
So I am let down.
I cannot bend over and kiss the earth
I am afraid I would forget about you.
And if I take you in, and love you
My eyes would go blank, my fingers numb
My heart would sing and sing but I would be deaf.

Loving Kills

I don’t know why.
But every time I feel love,
My body just wants to break apart.
It is like it knows
This is far too great for it to handle
And just gives up automatically
It is not fair.
I want to be given a chance
At love, like everyone else
I don’t want love to plague me
I want to absorb its colors
Dance to its music,
I want to roll around in it
A bad, hungry, playful dog.
Love jolts me awake at night
When the nightmare of my days
Reminds me to be patient,
but to wait for nothing.


I wait every day
For what? I am in love
I write, am written to
I have a job
I eat food I enjoy
I express myself
I have not found God
God propels me?
God is the emptiest name
So perhaps I wait for him/it
It is clear to me
That great things are always
Broken to the sender
I might wait
A little longer
I might wonder
How the pieces fit
If I might be a piece
Afterall.













The math of the heart,
Oh so simple
Like winding hearts
Like foot and face
I have no
Thought left for you
Come to me
I leave you
Empty handed
Empty thoughted
Empty nearsightedness
I pay attention to
Death, only death
To you the way
Night falls,
A mirror
Truckloading
Yourself off
To infinity.

Forget most
Attention: I am sympathy
Monster
And no one ever
Exposes this. the first
Lost guess
Was right; you won
Everything was
Terrible. The
Craziest earth day alive
Was this one
Where cousins
Lie spilling
Dreams over shores
Cough toothed
Ragged shoes
The factors of elegant corners
You have woven
A god into.

Oh heaven
Into me
What utmost
Shores of desire
Left for myself
To plunge off of
Into
The heart of madness
I stop relying
On temptation
I rely only on
Mathematical equations
Spilt over side of
Mouth to work
Dead ends into
Sentence fragments
Alive again
Conjuring and
Negative
A nude portrayal of
Empty grief
Alone and isolated
A word or two
Helps, a distant
Face appeased
And satisfaction flies
Through the roof
Of your mouth.

Alone and satisfied
Words fly
Through the corners of your mouth
Negatively pushing
You to your own deathly corners
Where you sit and wait
A child, crying
Lost and alone
Who wonders
What happened to you?
I don’t. I am
All alone. I take hurt
On the days, the days
Alone with me
I forever draw whipping
The face into ash
So I can draw it up
Again, a monster
Ruins, a leech
You will forget me
You will marry me

A tomb of silence
Exposes long-tooth days
A disease of blue ridden
Shoulders, and a fictional
Account of one’s life,
Shopping for disasters
Plucking the life
From a shelf, automatically
Given in to absurdity
The milk of day weans
You off, uncaring, you are
A monster, you forever
Uncaring, what you leave
Behind scarred and belligerant
The filth of your bloody tool
Exposed and reunited
The death-face pungent
And rotten beneath
Climbing turning shelving
Pigeons diving purposefully.



What joins up with you
Silence and words
Are trivial pursuits
Your tongue hot and fading
Fast, enamored of sweet
Tooth, a shore of glistening
Surprises, ending in one long
Battle, a victor, unpopular,
Appeals to the audience
He sings of pain.

Why the foreign
Music must make
You itch, must make
Blood petrifyingly
Soft alone within you
A mirror held up
You want to jump in it
You want to play in color
And laugh in music
You want exist
Naturally, forget me
Pathetically under light
Washes my true
Aloneness out
The door, into
Riot spelled night.

New favorite poem

El suertero que grita "La de a mil",
contiene no sé qué fondo de Dios.

Pasan todos los labios. El hastío
despunta en una arruga su yanó.
Pasa el suertero que atesora, acaso
nominal, como Dios,
entre panes tantálicos, humana
impotencia de amor.

Yo le miro al andrajo, y él pudiera
darnos el corazón;
pero la suerte aquella que en sus manos
aporta, pregonando en alta voz,
como un pájaro cruel, irá a parar
adonde no lo sabe ni lo quiere
este bohemio dios.

Y digo en este viernes tibio que anda
a cuestas bajo el sol:
¡por qué se habrá vestido de suerterol
a voluntad de Dios!

César Vallejo

New Poem

1/24/09

Loving you

It empties
into me from all
disguises around me—
those that circle and pretend
not to have any part
with me, the faces
contaminated by hate
or the nasally shrill
speak of traffic and
the metal and smoke day cough.
I seem to hear you
singing even when I feel
down, when I don’t know
how to feel—
I have no voice
no road not this savage
sinking weight but a confidence
in this entanglement, whatever
it is, even though it
scoops me up and takes me
away with it and I don’t know
where that is.