This the Earth Will Swallow Too

This, 

the earth will swallow,

too.

All

out tiny tears

and sorrows.

All

laughter borne away

on rising currents

of air.

Hold my hand, 

while you can.

Kiss my lips

while you may.

Tomorrow's an unknown:

one more

unknowable night, 

one more 

unknowable day.

Fingers Crossed....

"In the latest letter I received from Maria, she wrote only one sentence:

It is never enough to accept things as they are, you gotta aim for things the way you dream them."

I got an email from a publisher who wants to read my entire manuscript based on a sample. Could this be what I've been waiting for? What my story has been waiting for? What Maria and the world have been waiting for?

Stay tuned.....

Submit, Submit, Submit again....

Always dreaming of the day when I'm a read writer....

"Sometimes, I don't write because I fear what I will say; sometimes I write because I fear what I will not say."  One Night in Anywhere

ekphrastic poem:  after Young Woman at a Window – Salvador Dali

through the window, and across the bay:
a sailboat, and a tree-lined shore.
the sky is flat and gray, yet luminous,
what’s more: the breeze that touches water
goes its way, lifting curtains, curls, and sails
like this, like this, like this.
the waves on the surface; the folds in her dress.
the eyes that take in without focus
and forget the wall and window sill
to hold and remember and feel

Have You ZINE Her? One Drawing Away

...and a photocopier...this was on my list of goals for 2020! Incredible levels of stoked to announce that Have You ZINE Her #1 is about done. Now to distribute!

Have You Zine Her?

Calling all my crafty, wordy, creative friends, family, and framily!

Back in the days when my parents had a photocopier and I liked to make collage art with it...I didn't know that I could turn that obsession into a thing.

But now I know. Ok, I actually have known about zines for a while, but in my continuing quest (renewed New Year's resolution-style) to be more awesome, I think I'm going to make one.

I was kicking around some fun titles, but the one I have stuck with (and also, the one which did not bring up someone else's cleverly named zine in an internet search) is:

Have You ZINE Her?

...cue the Chi-Lites song that I am too young to know, and to old to care that I'm too young to know. (If you don't know it, look it up. So very worth it.)

I want to focus on pieces by women, but I can make exceptions, y'all.

Anyone want to play? I'll be posting on my social medias about this too...

How to Take a Monstera Cutting Without Being Noticed

My daughter was laying back in the dentist's chair under the bright lights. Looking super chic in those wrap-around dark plastic shades. 

I was finishing my ballot - thank my lucky stars and stripes I can drop this off anytime up til 7 p.m.

Next to me, the baby snored softly and suckled her pacifier. Next to her, and leaning over us both as though to cast shade under the fluorescent lights, was a big, gangly Monstera. And I wanted to take some home. So much. 

I was considering asking the receptionist if I could take a cutting. Would she laugh? Would she reveal me as an entitled white lady? Why don't I just buy a Monstera?! Like I really need another plant. Am I only interested if I can get it for free? 

The baby sighs, and I feel that. 

I know that later I will lie awake in bed, playing and replaying the scene: myself flanked by children, gazing with longing at the broad, lace-edged leaves. Reaching out, even, to touch the satin leaves and stem. They are the deep, secretive green of the jungle. I could have stared for hours, but I had mere minutes. I touched the nodes from which I could so easily coax roots forth. 

As we got ready to go, I walked slowly past the receptionist, feeling judged already, knowing I wouldn't ask. After all what if everyone did? 

One last, wild thought occurred to me, and I moved toward the Monstera. I was thinking that it is silly to waste so much worry on this damn plant. But also, as my hand reached out again, I was thinking that I could quickly snap a leaf off at the node. Tuck it into my purse. Who would stop me - a mom with a numb-faced daughter and a baby-in-carseat at her hip? Anyway, there was no one in the waiting room to witness me doing it.

No one but my daughter. The baby was asleep, but her older sister - a sharp-eyed nine-year-old was already looking at me to see what I would do. 

So instead, I said, "Such a pretty plant. It's called a Monstera." And we left the dentist's office. 

The baby has fallen asleep, as though this whole thing mattered as much or as little as whatever babies may dream. Her little features worked through a smile, to a bubbling pout, and back to calm repose. 

And I felt that.

The sudden thought that I learned to name cats from my grandmother. It occurred to me--it pounced on me like a cat itself, in the form of a long-gone feline companion Grandma kept: Jezebel. The mad blue eyes, the natural haughty expression. The thin, dark tail that flicked as though she wished it would rattle like a snake's. Jezebel was a Siamese, black and burnt-marshmallow cream. I remember wanting to pet her, and being reminded that she was too good for me.

Like many a cat, Jezebel could be sweet as honeyed milk, and soft as her paw with the claws drawn in. But then, the claws do come out...

Years later, I brought home a tiny, clumsy ball of fluff whom I named Circe after the sorceress who turned all Odysseus' men to pigs. Circe and I have now been friends for 16 years, and I know that her name fits her. Lithe and beautiful even in her advancing years, the blue-gray and dusty cream Himalayan. Her own mad blue eyes are just beginning to cloud.

It is only now, thinking of Jezebel that I realize a name like Circe for her. Like a Jezebel, Circe is both sweet and wicked, resistant and irresistible. You want to hold her and stroke her silky fur--and perhaps she will let you...

Going Tagless...

sick lace

Take Me Down the Moon

Haiku #174

full moon shies from dawn,
swelling, sinking in mountains
crowned in cloud and snow

Haiku #786

oer blue hills, bright peaks
pink in dawn, rising from
five million homefires ' smoke

lunchpoem 1-- (of desire only)

in the interest
   of writing poetry,
 i've gone skinny dipping
a dozen times
    in half a dozen states.
                it's not enough,
                     i know.

i have slept
       on buses,
     in cars,
       in and under trees,
  on the subway,
         and in one hundred arms.
i've eaten strange
     and sometimes poisonous things--
             and it's not enough,
                        i know.

i've hitchhiked, trespassed, shoplifted.
  i've wept for my own existence--
            and for yours.
    i've kissed so many fools, and loved them;
  some of them loved me back.

i've seen the sea,
and watched the mountains' moods.
               and it is not enough,
                     i know.

i've brought children
         into the world through
  blood, shit, and mystery.
    i've begun to see others leaving--
 considered leaving, myself.

but it is not enough-
will never be enough.

           still,
   i scribble on my little page,
           and smile
           and sing
           and laugh
           and age.

of desire only
     it is enough.
of desire only

MoonLife

Stories coming soon....

Limericks for Ladies

a lady must never pretend
to continue a thing past its end;
no one is served
by the falsely preserved--
the last scene played again and again. 

Dear Ivanka

Dear Ivanka,

I don't know why I write to you;
I don't know why anyone writes to you.

I find it hard to imagine you care.

And yet...

This could be the story where the princess discovers her own inner invincibility, and defeats her wicked father.

Where she realizes she is the pea
under her own thousand thousand - dollar mattresses.

Where she realizes that,  truly, the beast is the only one responsible for beastness.
Where she finally sees the frog is still a frog, once kissed.

Ivanka, Ivanka! 
Let down your
(Color treated)
(Genetically enhanced )
(Weave)
Long hair!

Ivanka, if the crystal shoe fits, wear it;
please remember the lottery of birth.

Ivanka!  Whose influence could buy houses for dozens of veterans!

Ivanka!  Whose dresses could be traded to feed several starving villages.

Ivanka!  Whose art collection could fully fund a hundred underfunded schools! 

Ivanka!  Whose family is not like yours or mine. 

Dear Ivanka, what if I really wrote you a letter?

                      ...if it was written in gold ink?

                      ...if it was written on paper of the finest quality?

                      ...if it was written by someone more (in)famous than myself?

Dear Ivanka, I see you are not following me on Instagram.

   (Could I blame you for that? I can hardly follow myself!)

Ivanka!  Whose word could be worth so much--
                           but is worth so very little.

              Whose voice could be the voice for so many--
                           but whose silence is complicity.
              Whose presence is false hope.
              Whose Trump card has been played.
              Who has been played, herself, and is being played right now.

Dear Ivanka,
   How long will you spin that straw into gold--
                  and at what cost?

How to Die on a Faraway Planet--Published!

It's happened! November is here, and "How to Die on a Faraway Planet" is live on the Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine website! I may have mentioned before (sorry, I have an infant son and I don't sleep much as a rule, so I really cannot recall) that this poem came to me while I was watching Battlestar Galactica. I love science fiction, and poetry, and am a fan of Asimov's, so I am thrilled x 3 to see my poem here among the other wonders this issue has to offer.

There, in all its front page glory!! 

Follow the link to read the poem! 

Tell your friends. :)

Here is a direct link to the poem: http://www.asimovs.com/current-issue/poetry/ 

Never Enough Time!

Well, I guess I have to chalk up another mark on the rejection list. Still searching for the right publisher for One Night in Anywhere. To date, my first and second wave have all replied in the negative.

At least I can look forward to the November publication of my poem "How to Die on a Faraway Planet" in Asimov's Science Fiction magazine. Also, I am extra pleased to say that I will be the author spotlight on the website! Look for me there!

How to Die on a Faraway Planet

Coming this November!

I am going to have a poem published in Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine! I also am fortunate enough to have been selected for a spotlight on their webpage for that time.

The poem is called "How to Die on a Faraway Planet," which I wrote in a fever while watching Battlestar Galactica.

The process has been interesting too, for someone who has not been published in a magazine before. I got to proofread and approve "galleys", and am currently working on a very brief biography and a photo to go on their website. I will post a link when it is up!

Stay tuned.

In other writerly news, my life is kicking my butt right now. Two jobs and two kids leave very little time for me to just sit and write, or edit, or even read. Most of my creativity is channeled into not losing my sh*t over quotidian annoyances. My respect for my own mother, and mothers everywhere increases on daily basis.

My novel is still awaiting publication; there are one or two publishers I am waiting to hear back from before I send my manuscript out again on a second round. The very first publisher I tried accepted--on the condition that I buy 1,000 copies up front. Who the ___ do he think I is? Mr. Monopoly?

No, no. I am seeking a more traditional route for my admittedly un-traditional work. I believe that publisher is out there. I know he/she/they/it is/are. All I must do is persevere.

...and maybe write a bit every now and then...