Tuesday, March 31, 2015

1/30: "trampstamp"

Alternative Names for the Tramp Stamp that are not Misogynistic Perjoratives:

classy lassy chasis
lady shade
dame frame
fancy expanse
vamp stamp
fetch sketch
spine design
hip clip
think ink
hiney lines
love letter
lumbar star
quaint paint
smart art
ace space
rad pad
back plaque
queen scene
empress finesse
goddess bodice
Susan B Canopy
Sor Juana Inez de caboose
Lucy Zone
Simone de booty-flair
Anais grin
Sylvia path
glorious spine-end
Rita Mae Crown
Joan threat

one of the most sensible places on the body to get tattoo work done when one takes into account the vast flat space, ease of work for the artist, and how the body changes over time

misogynist litmus

Welcome Back, April

National Poetry Month. It's already the First here in Taiwan, where it isn't national poetry month at all, but whatever. Here's a resource for people that I hope can help, my compiled bookmarks of poems to read, advice for writers, places to submit, and most importantly for this month: PROMPTS.

Link here!

Friday, August 1, 2014

August challenge to myself: 31 days of editing and submitting.

Thursday, May 15, 2014

2014 NaPoWriMo 30/30 Challenge Recap

  • The first April I've written a poem a day every day without missing a day in a few years.
  • Made this blog's 250th post.
  • Welcomed this blog's 14,000th view.
  • Deepened friendships with other poets sharing during the month.
  • Got some new material I didn't like, got some new material I did.
Looking forward:
  • Intending to start editing more and drafting less.
  • Intending to submit to some journals.
  • Have a goal to acquire 100 rejection letters - so far I have 3, so only 97 more to go!
Thank you everyone who read.  Thank you even more those who commented.  Communication and support mean so much to me.  Thanks most to those who also wrote that I got to read.  I'm so full from this past month.  So much love.  Thank you all.

Wednesday, April 30, 2014

30/30: this time it's personal and it's naked and it's ugly.

And it's prose.  Whoops.

I'm feeling extremely restless.  Something about spending an entire day expecting to learn at any minute that any number of people I hold very dear had died.  Something about this ovulation being extra cat-in-heat-like.  Something about too much introspection and existential thought.  Something about I love a man on the other side of a globe and what am I even stringing him along for if I will probably just let him down by going to bed with someone and never live near him anyway.  An open relationship in theory and in practice are different animals.  A past lover asked if I wanted to get down.  I wanted to get down.  I went to see him.  It was fun and it was fine but how will the man I love be after I tell him?  And I left still feeling cat-in-heat-like.  I wanted to go to any bar and go to bed with the first person who made eye contact.  I wanted a stranger to slap me full across the face and tell me horrible things about myself.  I went home and wrote a tender poem about my love then spent my whole dream fucking strangers who said yes.  So instead I drive too fast after school down rural highways and the wind is too cold because I don't have a jacket and it hurts my skin and I like it.  And a car in front of me is kicking up dust and it's stinging my skin and I like it.  I follow the car down roads I wouldn't otherwise have taken because I want the stinging to keep stinging.  And the cold and the sting is making me tear up and I like it because I have an excuse to shed tears and a reason for them I can name.  I'm driving too fast and I'm fantasizing about leaping off and flying for a few seconds.  I hold the accelerator down until it will go no faster and dream about brick walls.  And what am I even doing staying up too late every night and I just want to sleep all day and why am I going to work what does this work mean for me for my future what is a future do I even want one?  What is living for and can't I just sleep under an overpass and start drunk fights with strangers and get my teeth knocked out?  Why do I feel like shit and why do I want someone something to make me feel like shit?  Because then I'd have an actual reason for feeling this way that I cannot otherwise name?

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

29/30: Last Kiss Rehearsal

Lights up, low, on a stage.
Long benches, some people seated
here and there, some with bags.
No talking.  Enter, stage left,
the couple, young
but not too young, race
unimportant, but he
should be bearded and her hair
should be long.  Make them
the same height.  Make them stand
too close while she negotiates the purchase
of a one-way ticket in a foreign language, but he's
the one with the backpack.  She hands him
the ticket and they move to a bench.

They have not spoken to each other yet.

She opens
a small plastic shopping bag,
pulls out leftover pizza.
They eat in silence
but hold hands
on top of his knee.  They are

conspicuous in the way
that they are avoiding
looking anywhere else
but those hands.  Like they know
what it means.  Off stage we hear
a long bell, an announcement, and the hands
fall apart.  The couple stands.  The onlookers
look on as we remember

the gun in the first act, when she declared
her categorical opposition
to public displays and we watch as
without hesitation her arms are now
around his neck and she's kissing him kissing
him kissing him like those kisses could speak
every word she just chased
with the pizza.
She pushes the rest of it in the shopping bag
into his hands.  As he goes to board,
we watch in awe, wondering
how long one person
can go without blinking.  He rounds
the corner.
Lights down.

Monday, April 28, 2014

28/30: tornado season in arkansas again

today tornadoes danced
like dervishes across my homeland
while i on the opposite side of this globe
tried to teach
holding my fragile heart tenderly
between my teeth, live streaming newscasts
of nightmares between classes what a unique
feeling of powerlessness it is
to watch a death toll rise in time
with the barometer
unthreading my veins to tie a knot
for each prayer.
i am so tall but this inseam
is not long enough to carry me there.
what good is this wingspan
if i cannot reach
my dozen loves.

Sunday, April 27, 2014

27/30: prompts include writing a letter, using birdsong, among others.

Dear Andrea:

Things are good here.  The weather
has gone hot again, and the rains
should start back up soon.  My new job
is hard and I love it; two of my students
have now written poems.  Isn’t that
some kind of particular magic?  There are birds
that I listen to every night; I’ve been trying
to place their call.  One sound, one high
syllable just now, then again, and again
time to time and if I stand on my apartment
rooftop I can hear it echoing

                                                across town.  I haven’t
managed to actually see one of these birds.
I read yesterday an idea that a teacher
cannot really teach, that the student must learn
on their own, that all the teacher can do
is encourage the learning.  If that’s true, two
of my students have managed to learn
to write poems all on their own
and I’ve never seen a one of these birds.
Their call ends in an E-sound.  One night
I decided it was THREE.  THREE.  THREE.

I think about what I’m learning here, and who,
if anyone, is my teacher.  I go up
to the roof to escape the subtropical heat
if it is not raining and look out
at every sleeping window and marvel at the lives
they all contain.  One day soon a student
will give me a third poem, then a fourth
and I want to say I have taught children
to read but surely I only helped them

to learn.  What a precise alchemy it is,
and I watch as their little eyes solve
the squiggles, as their tiny mouths move
and all the right sounds come out and in
the night I reach out for these birds I cannot name
and I grasp them and tie my worries to their
little bird feet and let go, learning to watch them fly


Saturday, April 26, 2014

26/30: And you thought I was gonna go all month without writing about my mom.

When my mother dies
I will plant her body
inside my belly, safe
to grow again.  I will deliver

her back to life.  I will deliver

who has never hated me.
Not even once.

Friday, April 25, 2014

25/30: Anaphora


got me distracted
driving, got me daydreaming
at work and at rest, got me hating everything
I eat for tasting not one drop like you.
got me popping pens in my mouth
while I'm trying to write, at an angle
like that could invoke your girth,
got me missing the slick of you, saying
your name three times in the mirror like
it could make you appear.  got me staying up late
replaying memories then sleeping in trying
to hold on to dreams.  got me exclamation
mark.  got me restless interrobang.  got me hungry
ellipses.  got me aching like a high schooler
at 2:59 on Friday, got me afraid of what this means,
then relaxing into fear like an opening bud.
got me like a hobo listening to a whistling train, got me ready
like ramen craving falls of boiling water,
got me all sandy beach and you foaming waves.
got me crossing my legs to keep out my dancing hands.
got me tuned and soundchecked, got me kneeling,
head proud, hands folded, wide eyes open tight
and a stomach just as big, ready, praying, flag mouth
unfurled, that you will come on by
and get me.