Tuesday, April 15, 2014


day four migraine desert
hot sun, blown pupil-
core the vessel from
the blood diamond

every vein clogged
stiff as a cock
erect underneath
the thin thin skin
of my forehead
and scalp

hump, hump, hump
little desert apes
fuck my skill

nothing stops their

the sahara is crowded
with skeletons
bleached bloodless
in the heat
i am on the bakers rack
across the highest
point of dune

carry my head like 
trophy on stick
huyahuyahya chanting
my eyes bulge
from the platter

yes, i watch my own demise.

Saturday, April 12, 2014

to train up a child

everything makes me feel someone's suffering.
this is the truth of myself for as long as 
i can remember:
the endless porous repeating knowing
of another's deepest pain.

in the bath i think of a little girl i read
her story in the news
one silent Sunday morning
her mother 
drowned her in a bath so hot
she could hardly hold her under.

i'm not asking if i need to think of this
or that horrible 'should'
if i could
have a choice 
i'm not even sure what i'd do

this is how i've been as long as 
i can remember:
my closet stays open 
so i don't remember all the children
who at the pulse of this hot now
are locked alone in closets.

also the babies left to cry-
i'm telling you,
the chorus of their weeping 
is a soundtrack in my life.
i  hear them above the calling of Saturday
morning birds,

i hear them begging to be held and loved
to be freed from fear.
fear of being alone
abandoned, hurt, etcetera, etcetera, ee
i think of all the mothers who 
put gates on the suburban doors

of their toddler's rooms-
toddlers, we agree, are babies with 
faster legs,
but still babies, the rounded belly
feet, hands, cheeks and foreheads,
the universal open eyes
the cellular expectation to be nourished.

we are animals, we work to forget
but i rarely do
forget we are animals
and animals are not created
to be born and put into a room
with a gate
and left alone in the dark for hours.

this to me is a fundamental truth
and i can't make friends 
saying it
but nevertheless-
these babies and children 
weeping, until

one mother said on Facebook
in a humorous post on the amazement
she feels
that toddlers will cry until they vomit
after being left in their locked rooms
to 'learn how to 

well yes
i guess we must learn how 
to sleep
and did you know
i heard that many adults in America
have insomnia and did you know
i heard
that many adults have insomnia
because they are afraid of the dark

well i suppose
this is a better incarnation-
metamorphosis of this memory-
than being afraid of the mother

well yes,
i might have mentioned to her
that i have cried until vomiting
from loneliness and despair, also

although i was lucky enough
to do so 
in front of locked doors
not behind them.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

make an enormous colorful mess

It is in the shelter of each other
that the people live.
-Irish Proverb

Friday, April 4, 2014

People In Your Neighborhood

Mitchell was a little boy in your neighborhood of human beings. He was three when diagnosed with the fatal disease duchenne muscular dystrophy and ten years old when he died at home, with his mother and his father.

Mitchell's dad has a beautiful way of expressing himself that touches the basic truths of what he experiences and feels. He made a video series about his son, and this, 'Nightfall', he reads excerpts from the essay he wrote about the loss of his beloved boy.

I found it profoundly moving and inspiring because he speaks so honestly about the horror of death- not something you hear most people saying, even those right next to it- as well as his belief that the love of others is a meaning itself. In my life, an 'accumulation of tender mercies' has absolutely saved me.

I watched this with tears streaming down my face. I intend to keep these words close.

Mitchell's Journey

Tuesday, April 1, 2014


i like the grainy pixilated photo capture, right now, i am acutely aware of every role i play- mother, wife, worker, writer, self caretaker, housekeeper, perpetual organizer. everything is deconstructed from one morning to the dark blue evening, and then it falls on me to reorganize, categorize, soothe, elucidate, call, write down, clean up, buy, cook, wipe, erect, construct, a whole lego world, or a whole pixilated world, take as you like, but many pieces and never finished in life. when i take hot baths late in the night and the house is all asleep and the sweat slides off my fingers onto the pages of the book i read, i am being deconstructed. 

the questions:

what is my life going to look like now that i work?

how can i continue to be a 120% mother?

can i write? can i complete my novel and have an almost full time day job?

will i ever finish my novel?

how much sleep do i need?

does it matter what i need- can i get what i need? 

where will we be living in three months? our lease is up and the owners are selling. i can't talk about this right now. it's too hard. we all love this place more than any place we've ever lived. we all love the street we live on- a street with houses but also an old style veterinarian clinic, coffee shop, liquor store and old fashioned park complete with piazza, a stream and a running train- more than any street we've ever lived on.

i still dance to music in my house and car. i still get ridiculous on the regular. i still eat gluten free cookies and drink too much milk and get a stomachache. i still mourn and worry and consider what i can do every day for abused and neglected children and human beings. i still pray and i still cry in my closet. i still watch West Wing with Lola every night. i still read. i still lick my lips too often. i still sit with my back scrunched up. i still feed the dogs and the children. i still talk on the phone to Dakota and FB with Ian. i still love Saturday mornings. 

but i feel so different.

something is happening, a shift, and if i were a bird, i'd incline my wings and go with the wind wherever it took me.

i went on a run late in the day today and the light was gorgeous. it rained all morning. i ran in the filtered sun and the entire world looked scrubbed new. i talked to my dead friends and grandparents. i ran and ran. and i inclined myself and flew.

Monday, March 31, 2014


sirens bleed the night runs cold
a telephone rings next door. 
my mouth dark plum fisted hold
kiss me there, you might
find everything you are looking for.
what about before?
what about before?

in two mouths, open like baby birds
worms go down.
i love you here
speak, the tips of trees 
pierce the sky 
this is why darkness.

i will scream if i like!
to scream.
i will scratch if i like
to scratch,
to bitch the blood.
this ferocity used to be
a glue. now you are afraid
of what hardened you.

i remember the way 
i can give it to you again.
come home
to me.
enter, again.

Saturday, March 29, 2014


do you think about me, the way i used to be
when i was still me.
before the bankrupt business, the 
broken pelvis 
fat of scars and blood, the baby in the
hospital, the 
internal fracturing of self worth
with all that is lost.
brain on fire, calls on Sunday
overdue bill
before nine to five became day to night.
do you think of me. the way i used to be.
when we were still we.
the corners of night that were ours alone
the way your face changed for me
the meaning of home.
your face unmasked in love
more like a child and more like a man
than ever before, finally
that thing we run for
a wholeness. love so tender
we shook sliding into bed.
our eyes together and we ticked off
the things we were no longer afraid of:
death, disease, disaster.
the night before we married
you said ' just keep your eyes on me,
like its always been. '
of course you were right, 
i did not tremble beneath the veil
but stared into the sun bold and yellow.
remember that day, 
the ocean crashed like hands clapping.
we stood in the wind, being photographed
i thought i might feel like a wild thing
in a trap
but i have never felt so free.
i knew i was heading straight into the arms of love.
my sweetheart, my love
sometimes in the dark nursing heart of night,
i think of how we used to be
your hands on my rib cage like a wedding ring
your eyes alight with the matter of the beyond sky
and the waves are making sounds like crying
behind the veil that blows on our wedding day.

People In Your Neighborhood

take a seat and read, baby
Jenny Chiu writes Don't Make The Thin Girl Ugly and I was like, amen.

In this site of stories of faith from Muslim women, a powerful memory of a woman's dying baby, and her strong mother by Sabina Kahn-Ibarra. 

You all KNOW I've sung this song, right here on Flux. The Nasty, Backstabbing and Miserable World of the Suburban Mom

L'Ren Scott's suicide and the tragic side of city's glitzy scene. A powerful testament to what hiding in plain sight does to a person.

I am absolutely head over heels in love with Vivian Maier's photographs and story of anonymous life and art and death. Her photos make me want to cry and love and see and write. Her photos make me feel a dark and timeless pang over the human condition, over mortality, the way time marches on so relentlessly. Please take the time to look through the portfolios on the site. You won't regret it.

Just one more reason to love Lena Dunham. Not that I needed one.

Well this is interesting. Bullet, an analog note-taking system for the digital age. YES.

In The Millions, an essay to fall into. A Physics of the Heart: On Grief, M-Theory, and Skippy Dies by Kalpana Narayanan

Did you know that John Lee Hooker is one of my favorite all time musicians? And that this song is one of my favorite songs? And that the blues have a huge place in the room of my heart?

Monday, March 24, 2014

New Article: Sexus Interruptus

Hello Jello

Come read my new article at Purple Clover on sex after (many) children, and hopefully laugh: