Here I am in pogom – trapped trappedBlood deer in the face, looking askance, how many timesWill be stuck and need to reinvent myself – to changeAnd hasten story – burnt-earth desert town and the problemPeople lick me in; nothing to read — no face in the granary Earth possible – no child and no foragedCredentials;… Continue reading poem: in a moment of desperation i searched poetry MFA california
Tag: california
poem: the woman with no face
I cannot find the center of LA I attend the outskirtswith my husband we find -- local places that are chains but atleast local to California we deny the normal places we cannot findthe tourist spots to go -- then again I have never lookedfor them, or even at a list. one day in the… Continue reading poem: the woman with no face
poem: driving home from the – i lost count – appointment
i come down the cliff into the sore-bitten songof myself -- in the car, here is Youth Aesthetic, the desert in widesunlight smile without teeth, the college at the far end of townand swiveled out with trees, roads that lead upward andwrap beyond sight. i would cry for myself before; now it is numbhardness, clavicle… Continue reading poem: driving home from the – i lost count – appointment
anthology: the california poems
secrets from a girl who's seen it all. summer of 2023. "california" - all my desperation left me / after I fell in love and now I cannot write. "the other option is to try to conjure powerful emotions (but not feelings)" - he understands that you / write about what you have. "dear stranger who… Continue reading anthology: the california poems
writing: talent is its own expectation
She was determined to not be someone who projected her regrets onto her children or had a mid-life crisis at forty-five and so needed the reminder of her twenties to be an exercise in living dangerously. This was wrapped up with the desire to read philosophy and to do it fast and do it now… Continue reading writing: talent is its own expectation
poem: it is finally 80 degrees in october
little age of shame the wetness carries in the day-- i will return i will wear themark of the water, low hung frayed tee-shirt tied up, over tight bodyi now dig back into -- this bohemian stylethis little dark age, fallis dead: rise rise eternal heat. i can talk in French now about abstractthings i… Continue reading poem: it is finally 80 degrees in october
the last pavilion 