So I wrote the post about my brother, which I needed to do, and afterward, I needed to get out and stretch my legs and my mind and my spirit. I decided to return to our local hiking spot, thinking that there couldn’t possibly be an incident like the last one. Continue reading “Random Acts”
Why is it that we give monument to increments of five? Why do five and ten hold more weight than three or seven? The fifth anniversary of my brother’s death just passed and five years feels impossible. I have this disbelief that he is gone, and at the same time, feel the unbearable weight of his absence. How can he be dead? How can five years have gone by? How is it that life just continues, as if time forgot the sound of his laughter and his suffering? Continue reading “Increments of Five”
Barren Magazine has exploded onto the literary scene with a creative force that is unstoppable. In just three issues, they have published some of the best contemporary poetry, fiction and non fiction, I have ever read, by some of my very favorite writers. It is an absolute honor for me that, editor Jason Ramsey, chose one of my poems to sit alongside so much beautiful writing.
It is made even more meaningful by the fact that he chose a poem inspired by my friend, Bojana, an immensely talented poet and writer. This is for you, Gorgeous Lady!
I am super excited and honored to have 3 of my poems in Dodging the Rain today. My huge thanks go out to poetry editor Neil Slevin!
I don’t usually write much about my poems after they are published; I tend to allow them to be whatever they are meant to become for anyone who reads them. But, the three poems in Dodging the Rain are all very close to my heart, about loneliness, and essentially love. The love for a sibling, for a partner, and for a friend. They are about stillness and about the journey. But still, I hope that if you choose to read them, they will also be whatever you need them to be.
If you would like to read the poems, you can do so here.
I have been blank lately, the poet who can’t seem to write any new poems. It is incredible how much weight fills up the blank space, how I feel it not only in my mind, but through my limbs and on my skin. That said, I decided to stretch my legs, go to my usual hiking spot, hopefully leave my head behind. Continue reading “Hiking, Hollywood Style”
Some days the act of breathing seems almost impossible. The weight of my choices sits heavy in the pit of my throat and I am pulled into the roots of suffering. I wear my defeat like skin. The room is too warm and my hands feel numb. I just want to drown, to vanish, disintegrate into ash. I don’t remember getting old, but my body bears the signs of decades of abuse. How can you change when you can’t even stand, when your feet are too weak to hold the mess you’ve made?
In a dream, I shed my skin and stepped into a body I could love. I looked at a reflection that wasn’t lined with cruelty, pock-marked with despair. I had a new name and felt weightless. Then I woke up. Continue reading “Breathing”
I have been away, under the skin of darkness. I intended to bring along pen and paper, do a bit of blood-letting, record my thoughts; instead, I brought a bottle, numbed out and dreamed of becoming someone else. I curled up against the edges of my eyes and saw things I knew were lies, but I didn’t care. I forgot about plotting my escape and let the stillness eat me up.
Continue reading “The Return of Darkness”
I got an amazing surprise last night! My dark little poem, “Stiff Trigger” has been nominated, by editors Kendall and Christina Bell from Chantarelle’s Notebook, for Best of the Net! This is a huge honor and I am so grateful.
If I used a razor, I would warm the blade,
delighting in the comfort of tepid steel,
and watch life pool in crevices on the floor.
If I took pills, I’d lay them across my palm,
sacrament for a wanting tongue,
penance doused in bitterness,
tugging on my eyelids with welcome force.
If I used a gun, it would be an antique,
with gilded barrels and a stiff trigger,
a relic of ravaged lives held gently to my lips.
*first published in Chantarelle’s Notebook