collector

i keep strange things,

meaningless to others:

a small red wax leaf

made with pushing 

thumbs at granny's 

dining room table

an unsharpened 

Washington Bullets

pencil with a fat pink eraser

a Spanish Garnacha 

bottle, drained long

ago and now corked 

with a drippy red candle

pictures and postcards

and phrases I liked 

post-its covered in 

passwords and user IDs

doodles I've clipped from

boring-class notebooks 

and taped into others 

words and words

and words and a 

strange oppressive 

guilt for everything I've

never said to your face

and the growing pile 

of things I want to. 

confessions

How could I have known
that I was a tumultuous storm
spot on a hot red planet?

The biggest planet
with more rings and
bracelets than all the others.
I guess, somehow, I knew.

But what you mistake
for sheer swirling power
is a more complex tempest

a fiery combination of confusion
and guilt propelled by a refusal
to fail and alot of resiliency.

But mostly I think that hot
red spot you saw was
just an intense heart,
with plenty of room for you.

Five O'clock (a revision of Bravery)

I wonder how you feel

around 5 O'clock
when you come home from work

if we take the joy out from you
and drag it across the kitchen floor

Send you retreating into the old
rocker, battered, to sit for the rest of the night

in front of the three-channeled television.

Like the strange failure of those waves from
the broadcasting networks to the
flimsy antennae of the tv,

I can never get a signal from you that is

strong enough to decipher.

And one thought reruns in my head,

a consistent 5 o'clock syndication:
One day you will drop dead, and I won't know a
Goddamn thing about you.

Notes on recent life

My previous thesis plans have changed. Unfortunately Jill Rosser is unable to direct my thesis work next year and new plans must be made as my penultimate portfolio is due in a matter of weeks. However, good ideas seem to flow in times of stress and uncertainty. Thankfully. 

My thesis work will now be directed, roughly, towards my very favorite of subjects (and practices): Food. 

An amazing professor of plant biology here at OU has preliminarily agreed to direct my thesis work. A project with the working title of "Words on Food." 

I am interested in what American's eat, where it comes from, how it's grown, why its not sustainable, and what America can learn from other countries about eating and growing

It could involve touring farms, grocery stores, slaughter houses, traveling to sustainable alternative agriculture sights, maybe even growing my own garden! 

It's a big topic and a big project as of now, but it is very exciting. 

Aches

          It is March

          or another one of those depressingly damp months

          and I am home, which is rare.

I wince as my prematurely arthritic knees

make horrifying noises --

the clicks and pops and elastic-y

sounds that I imagine

you might hear if a beast

were tearing your shoulder out of its socket --

nothing out of the ordinary.

          My father watches

          from his post in front of the television --

one which has never had cable programming

and with the switch to digital broadcasting

will soon have nothing to offer at all.

But he has managed to find some scrambled

channel with an afternoon rerun of Little House

on the Prairie, or another equally depressing show.

          I say

          "This weather is bothering my arthritis"

and he responds, matter-of-factly

that if I kept my weight down

maybe I would take some of the stress off my joints.

Sound advice for a girl of twenty struggling with the

mortifying measurements of 5 foot 4 and 125 pounds.

Obesity to be sure.

          I crouch 

          down, wincing again

to complete the task of tying my running 

shoes. I begin to wonder where the limb-eating

beast is, and why he is taking so long to come

to this house. And before I take off 

down the street I say

"enjoy your show daddy." 

Sedaris

Last night I had the distinct pleasure of hearing David Sedaris read at Memorial Auditorium.
What a wonderfully funny man.
After the show I waited in line and got my ticket and two books signed.
If you don't know him yet, you should. No excuses.
Sedaris on NPR
Sedaris publicity page: including his recommended reading list

serendipity

A lovely girl (Miss Laura Rossi) just informed me about the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa University. Which is, of course, in Boulder Colorado. Allen Ginsberg founded this school at Naropa in 1974 in collaboration with Anne Waldman. Naropa boasts a contemplative education and their campus is 100% wind powered. Even more incentive for me to head out west post graduation. 

Teach for America offers opportunities in Denver (assuming I am accepted).

There is also an MFA in Creative Writing at UC Boulder and an MFA in Writing and Poetics at Naropa. Lovely finds. 

I plan to attend the Jack Kerouac- 50 Years On The Road festival at Naropa in the summer so I can check out the campus!