Wednesday, April 29, 2009


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. 


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.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

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.

Monday, April 20, 2009

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. 

Wednesday, April 8, 2009


          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." 


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

Sunday, April 5, 2009


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).
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!