I don’t think there is anyone who doesn’t want to belong to something or somebody. Not ownership belong to but be a part of belong to. Even me. I say even me because I’m a natural, albeit ironic, loner. Ironic because I’m a twin and we make two of five sisters. Ironic still because there [...]
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"Don’t misunderstand me. I believe in the power of poetry to heal and change but sometimes I am so tired of the atrocities in the world. One book of poems is just not enough. How do we make the blues go away. I want to write poems that incite, inspire a better world."
"A good girl: bright, perhaps a bit of an introvert, perhaps not romantically pursued or interested in the pursuit for these reasons. Of course, these traits are likely not all she is, but when she is told that her brownness negates her goodness, she must determine how to be herself—all of herself—anyway. Tropism is the biological phenomenon that describes how she does it. In tropism, external agents determine the direction of an organism’s growth. For better or worse, it is often external agents that show a good girl of color how to grow into herself; they determine what she will look like and how she will act."
2017 has been life affirming. I haven't taken y'all on the cardiomyopathy carousel much this year because technically it's all rather new; a little up and down like the carousel horsies; a little boring as incremental change can be; and more than anything for all my say-it-anyway-you-can banner waving, ummm, I'd rather not. Besides, I am so, so Here. And other people that were in my brand of canoe don't always get to say that. So, about being Here. That good girl project has been doing big things this year!
I'll be reading poems from Marrow, my manuscript about the Peoples Temple, a congregation of Americans who emigrated to Jonestown Guyana and were coerced into suicide by their spiritual leader.
Talking to myself--especially when it becomes a lot of talk all of a sudden, always tells me there is something I'm trying to work out of my brain and especially out of my body. It's interesting that I haven't been able to run lately, one of my choice ways of working stuff out of my mind and body.
a donut had fallen in a rush to breakfast its sticky footprint darkening and travelling through every room, the cough following it
In a burned out city that whispered from its ashes willful forgetting would only salt that richness; turn the fertilizing of it to Death.
Ballad of Bridges Each one was familiar yet its peril new and desperate over water not deep enough to account for believing more in visions of mangle and gore only visions, after all, amalgamating into fear. The subconscious is always painting its face in Imagination and Doubt. So if I've crossed bridges before in the sullenness of day's brooding; wearing the [...]