Del Mar, CA

From where you sit it all seems so beautiful

 

And I finally understand you. For that I can’t express enough thanks

As the subject is the best color for me in the difficulty of this lonely life.

It’s always caught up in my mind, what could be more beautiful.

-Camille Guthrie, from 'Beautiful Poetry'

dark sex heart

he is a darkness and Sunday was electric tape and wires
tapping the underside of your foot,
hardening the submissive nipple.

handle me not gently because i want to break
apart into your mouth,
a fractal orgasm.

the thick of your thighs are made to force
pleasure down the straw,
liquid follows your tongue.

i am here for my own desires 
don't pussyfoot,
place your finger on the ripple.

everkins

she's wearing her sister's American Girl doll glasses
a Minnie Mouse necklace
the same amber teething necklace she's worn since 4 months old
an apple shirt from Grandma Mimi
and holding very ancient and pixelized candy from the Halloween era that was discovered fossilizing in an abandoned cabinet

her nose makes me want to honk it or kiss it, both
i am completely head over heels in love with this tiny but surprisingly muscley ball of unstoppable energy, curiosity, sass, love and at three years old, devoted to me passionately.
i night weaned her. i told her the day she turned three that she could nurse to sleep, but could not nurse again until the light comes up in the morning.
every morning at the crack of dawn when the first tiny slivers of sun make their way through the darkness of night, she sits up possessed by one and only one desire: GIVE ME SOME NURSIES NOW

somehow i won and lost.
motherhood, in a nutshell.

PS
my non-fiction essay is up in the new edition of Literary Orphans. 

Deleted But For A Photo

goofy goober

goofy with Everkins

being goofy is a daily occurrence for me. if i were measuring, i'd say i'm easily one half goofy. my entire perspective on life, even in the serious, sobering aspects, is colored by ridiculousness. i like to talk goofily, dance goofily, sing goofily, play with my kids goofily, snuggle goofily, eat goofily, and my penchant for walking goofily once got me a broke ass foot. ouch.

the above picture is me at the end of my workout, dancing with Ever. i wanted to submit a picture of me in some of my new leggings to Women Poets In Sweat Pants but they closed submissions, so here I am instead on Flux, in my skull leggings. They are amazingly comfortable and put me in a good mood.

i am so, so sad. and i am so, so goofy.

what else can you do?*


*rhetorical question. there are many other things you can do. noted.

People In Your Neighborhood

take a seat and read

Jennifer Pastiloff bares her soul in The Rumpus: Ghost Lives

Amy King writes a poem, and Poetry publishes it. This is why: Wings of Desire

I'm using this list: The 100 Best Movies Streaming on Netflix

The former Editor-In-Chief of the New England Journal of Medicine says ' it is no longer possible to believe much of the research published ' 

Charles Simic writes about what he calls 'the age of ignorance'. This is what I consider the most important part of his essay:

"Even regional history has gotten a short shrift. Students who come from old New England mill towns, as I have discovered, have never been told about the famous strikes in their communities in which workers were shot in cold blood and the perpetrators got away scot-free. I wasn’t surprised that their high schools were wary of bringing up the subject, but it astonished me that their parents and grandparents, and whoever else they came in contact with while they were growing up, never mentioned these examples of gross injustice. Either their families never talked about the past, or their children were not paying attention when they did"

Ashley C. Ford writes an important, powerful article on R. Kelly, but really about the subtitle, which says this: ' Little black girls are taught how and when to be silent before anyone teaches us that we have the right to say no. '

oh boy it's a party

a list of wasps: she has enormous potential
he said with a straight face
painfully straight, if you ask me.
i would rather suck a dick!
than eat a pussy
" hahaha " no one laughs but you.
the big breasted woman has no other words
so i remember her mammarily.
she stares hard and hungry at her person
willing him to convince her life is worth living.
he is a depressed jumble of vices and pain,
the top of his lip trembles tenderly as he drinks.
i watch and listen and everyone thinks 
i am a bitch.
unfriendly women get reputations too.
i can't help it that life had me by the balls
early on, forcing my eyes two feet out my head.
i've always seen clearly the bullshit and not
that i've been able to avoid it-
god i still miss smoking like a fatherfucker.
cringe, Freud. i sit on your face.
the women eye me warily.
the men either want to fuck you or impress you
boring, boring, boring.
the real person unveiled,  as rare as a good poem.

bathwife

her bath body white and limp
akimbo, turquoise wash rag 
placed between her legs.

the book holds it's tongue
household is strangely silent
things going on, out there.

let the dog drink the toilet water
let the children hide the vitamins
let them eat cake.

the neighbors smoke weed
in the garage,
they keep three cats in a cage.

she turns in the bath
limpid in lukewarm
half asleep and half crazy.

the northern star hums good intentions
cleaning fog and insisting on noise
meow, scream, silence.

duplicity