return of the verse

it's a short one, but sometimes that's what it takes to break through. . .

cross

one line over
the other missteps
misfires the thought
of lord and paper
stranded you place
the card here for

me to read burn gold
foil embossed forget
about the fold it stands
hurting my teeth
just looking at it

Wicked Awesome

This is an honor and pleasure. Perhaps my last tribute to Chicago as home. Thank you, Kristy.

Birthday Blowout

This is a picture from Brian's birthday extravaganza at Tru restaurant in Chicago. It was VERY fancy and very tasty. A good time was had by all, even Brian's 80 year old grandma, who cracked some funny jokes about the fancy (almost silly fancy) food.

Eliot playing in the water

mumbo jumbo

I have been posting mostly poetry lately, but thought it might be time to give an update of more personal nature (though it's arguable which is more personal-- the poems or the attempt to bear effects of personal matter). Anyway, Here's a go at it.

We have officially sold our condo in Chicago. But we are, in fact, still living in it. The buyer is nice enough to be renting it back to us until our new home in Colorado is at least close(r) to completion. Our planned moving date is August 22. I've only packed six boxes.

I'm jobless as of now (though if we weren't moving, I would of course keep my fellowship teaching at UIC) and can't seem to be able to find anything, even adjunct work, in Colorado. As my husband reminded me this morning, "Now is not the time to be on the job hunt," and of course he's right. The academic market booms in October, though I'm also looking at High School jobs as well as jobs in the business/ private sector. I'm pretty much looking for anything I'm qualified for that won't bore me to death or cause me to be away from my family more than 40 hours a week. You'd thinnk this would be an easy order, but alas.

I've recently recieved some beautiful publications that I'm honored to be published in, including the Briar Cliff Review, Fourteen Hills, and Alligator Juniper. The Briar Cliff review is a really striking publication; very artistic and professional. Fourteen Hills features many of my favorite poets, including a collaborative piece by Marilyn Hacker and Gabrielle Althen. The Alligator Juniper is more of a student publication, but extremely professional nonetheless. The fiction that I've read (only a few pieces) seems to be quite good.

Eliot is talking like crazy, saying words like "gorilla," "scissors," and "go walk". He amazes me on a daily basis. His most current word is "bus," which he says every time he sees one or hears anything that resembles the squeaking of the bus brakes. Living in the city gives him plenty of occasions to show off this new word.

I am training for another marathon. I'm thinking I might do the Boise "City of Trees" marathon in early November. It looks like a lot of fun and it's SMALL. After battling the groups of runners training for the Chicago Marathon every Saturday morning, I welcome the quiet, rolling hills. Training in Colorado at altitude will be a challenge, no doubt.

The prose poems keep coming, though I'm not sure how they really hold together as "a collection" at this point. Soon I'm going to have to stop moving forward and look at them as a group, then write some "connective material" to make sure they hold together. Because I'll have to defend this "collection" as a cohesive unit, this is something I'm definitely focusing on. Truth is, though, I haven't written in verse for several months now, and I'm a little worried about going back. The prose form has become very comfortable for me. I've been doing it for over a year. Another thing that concerns me is the elusive "dissertation prospectus" that I have to write over the next several months. I planned to write it over the summer, but seemed to have lost all academic motivation after the dreaded exams. I think I'll be ready to hunker down once the move to Colorado is complete and things have quited down to a dull roar. Hoping, at least.

Hopefully more poetry to come. Maybe even a versed piece!

hiding

we don’t understand how you can lose a man, his body, his appendages crammed with moving juices. bloated in the salty sea. floating on asphalt. dark hair hiding him in the garage. among the power tools and storage racks made of metal scraps. moving between stilettos and innuendos. we are sure he is not in a box because he speaks to us regularly. from his travels. his memories are composed of tricycles on sidewalks and red oily lipstick smears on his hip flexor. the occasional brass pedestrian. you still say he must be lost. We can hear him, we say. we scream. scream. don’t let go. he keeps his secrets. inside. away from. us.

oracular

shunt the fog, simple bud. green capsule torn and trampled. peeking petal slide and scent of gardenia but gone too soon. fiber of branch, eloquently woven. ties together the atmosphere but daggers the footprint. there in the ash. you have covered yourself in it. ear. spoken to, eaten. window and drum. moved from the pinna to the skull, and rested there. we try to forget her name, hiding it in the bushes. we are. laughing again. too soon. and running. for our lives

abundance

partition your extremities. she fights for her spine, which coils around his thumb. like predator. angry for space. you know that I hide in the second hand. the afterbirth spoke of two heads, one mouth open. left there. some women eat their own placentas. museum for such fine decisions. maybe he flinched when she bit his fingernail. how could she. stop herself. you are more like decay than abundance. who wouldn’t want another tongue, designed to taste the sour fire.

arthropod

careful of sway. its direct reflection of raw wind. coup d'etat. swift route of monsoon and drift. maybe I cancel your words, already dripping with bounce. is that what you are. afraid of. the tides. horseshoe crabs and their dinosaurian spines. you dream of them, stretched and shiny like spun sugar. pulled sugar. the sweetness irreverent but bright. where do we find them. but on coasts. debris. my own placenta was not my own and now. even this. is elsewhere claimed. what is under the shell. but a mass of jointed limbs. stink of seaweed. moving on and out.

aperture

portrait like a swerve into your cornea. unobtrusive vibration and violet edge. capturing. where. history. particular glance on the way out. but you were never there. strange likeness to a daiquiri but pineapple face. your story about curfew and snowballs constructs a new image of your white body. psyche about sight. when I lose my version of you, I will have to kiss my own photograph. stage, curtain, comma. leave a mark. of saliva on me.