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Location: Brooklyn, New York, United States

Saturday, February 23, 2008

First Poem

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

some california morning spiritual wisdom from rumi

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning is a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Sunday, February 17, 2008


smells of blossoms caught in the fog. Here I thought this place was lined with a particular pain, but find it is quite another. Of course. The reason I cry on tables. Something so bright it can't be seen...four years later I begin to glimpse the dark outline. Your small grip on my back. Loosening. Eucalyptus flower. Weightlessness, beginning to bear.

Thursday, February 14, 2008

"Everything should be made as simple as possible, but not simpler."

Saturday, February 02, 2008

what matters

It's been a week of tempering the big emotions of small people, of small objects flying out of my hands, of braving awkward moments with exes that fade in the shuffle of what matters, of the long metal underground world not behaving as it should, the small rooms and corridors inside me quaking, of the corridors and classrooms outside me behaving a little more as they should, of big 4 a.m. questions and small tremors, of songs in my ears alone filled with wide questions and gorgeous silences, of writing words like ubiquitous on pink paper, of feeling what matters shuffling inside me on its own accord, of laughing on multiple levels, of lining the lining, of sleeping and not sleeping, on the edge of a queen-sized memory-foam mattress with white noise, of thinking about skin, of trying to hear, of trying to see, of wondering, of deciding.

Braved the AWP conference for awhile today, which generally feels like being held over at the Chicago airport during the holiday season with a sea of half-familiar narcissists. It was worth it to hear James Tate read "The Ice-Cream Man" (and field questions in what has got to be one of the funniest interviews I've ever favorite part was when he paused for about 15 seconds and then said gruffly, "I don't know if I have any pets,") and to run into my dear friend Spring Ulmer. Read her poems on the train home and they are echoing in my mind:

I am so famished I make-believe I'm a fruit.
I touch B's letter to A with my blue-brown skin. Just the edge of it–
Its creamy fold punctures my swollen side. My red insides open.

(from "The End of Our Correspondence" by Spring Ulmer)