Saturday, May 22, 2010

things. in no particular order. also known as, the disorder of things.

Yoga Paris Pictures, Images and Photos
-find out what it feels like to be centered. everyday.
-decipher what it means to be successful in my own mind.
-practice yoga more. and remember the key term is "practice."
-be peaceful in the process.
-write more. start by not paying attention to what I am typing..
-start to love my body more.
-make one new dish per week.

Sunday, May 16, 2010


wind Pictures, Images and Photos
Blood can clot, a toilet will overflow and dough for whole wheat bread will rise all at the same time. I am quite the multi-tasker. I can imagine what life feels like, I can even tell you how everything feels inside of my body, like warm water seeping out of the corner of your mouth. I can tell you these things because it has happened to me. I am an expert of sorts, the person people call when they are researching a project about ontology. I am an accurate example of “being.” I can fall apart and be rebuilt in twenty minutes. Enough time to cry, hyperventilate, wash my face, re-apply black liquid eyeliner, breathe slowly a few times, shove a brownie (maybe two) into my mouth, chug a glass of whatever is closest and then head held high, walk back out into my life.

Saturday, May 8, 2010

One from the "oh" poem series.

I want to write miles of poetry on butcher paper so you will always have something to read in the quiet moments. I want to order squid ink from the depths of the Pacific that will never fade so my words would always be near you...crumpled in your pocket next to subway tokens and lint. I draw lines of words that form sentences. You catch glimpses of things I try to hide with smirks and subject changes. Oh..I am a tricky girl with a pen. And it feels good. It feels good to say these things, feel these things, use pens and typewriters until my fingers ache with alliteration and meter...words spill over from one stanza to the next. I break the rules of Villanelles and Sestinas. I give new definition to the sonnet and write your name over and over ten times on fourteen lines and call it a work of best yet.
I came on my fingers and drew pictures on the curb and stopped traffic just so everyone could see the beauty of it glisten in the afternoon sun...they said the portrait was uncanny. I agreed until my jaw unclenched...until I felt you crawl inside of me. Until I felt like a museum.
A candy store full of nickel sweets for the insatiable craving for sugar on my tongue was buried under stacks of acid free paper, cradled between your thighs and mine. Sharp tips of felt markers drag across my wrist as I attempt to show you how I bleed; how it all comes out onto you. A
And you smile because this rhymes somewhere inside your tissue and marrow. Somewhere that no one else has been. Somewhere that science didn't know existed.
And because of this we are pioneers.