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Family History [11 Jul 2010|01:11am]

Family History

She was 12
in her uncles house
and in those days
what was done was done
and was nobody's business
in a man's house.
She grew up and she raised daughters
and never told them
that in those days
what was done had been done
and it's done now
and he died and it was done.
But she never told them,
not directly,
and that was the lesson.
So when the daughter was 14
what was done was done
and it was not the same
but it was the same
and it was nobody's business.
And she never told her mother,
not directly,
because that was the lesson.
And she grew up.
And had daughters.
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Writing Group? (x-posted at relevant LJ Chicago groups) [13 Oct 2007|02:38pm]

Seeking renegade writers with an interest in ALL kinda of writing; word addicts and slaves to the underground; beat poets and obsessive journalers. Let's get a writing group together and: share our work, discuss the process, talk about books, make zines, attend spoken word events and get our voices heard!

Contact me now for meeting times and places...
6 comments|post comment

x-posted [18 Jun 2007|02:52pm]

I created this because I thought it would be nice to have something like the Readers' Circle website, but for writers.


I x-posted to chicago_books and writerly_icons, too.
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substance [12 Jun 2006|10:57pm]

[ mood | inspired ]

Tonight, ill fated
as I cry, not tears of joy
nor tears of sadness
instead, tears of inspiration.

As my heart remembers that some things are not meant to be
yet again, so close....I thought for a moment
what I had was a grasp of the very essence of life itself
it was so difficulty to hold onto!

Like trying to grab a drop of water, you can feel it...
yet eventually, it dries up, or slips off your hand
physically I feel it's presence
as it fades away, never to be felt again.

Twice bitten, twice shy
running away from my fears and my problems
like the water, the solution seems to always disappear
as immaterial as my own imagination.

I would give up everything to simply maintain that moment further
yet it's already gone and I only realize that now
the flavor sitting on my tongue, of forbidden fruit
how can you deal with having tasted such a thing
when your body, your mind, your everything, seeks more of it?

Inspiration ran away, for a while
I think it went for a walk
it has found it's way back home
just in time for dinner.

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two poems [27 Apr 2006|12:10am]

submitted for critiqueing. please be brutal and specific. thanks!
Read more...Collapse )
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3am flashback [24 Feb 2006|04:03am]

[ mood | calm ]

Suddenly, poof!
Awake from a dream, deja vu presents itself
like an invisible aura around objects
why is this so familiar when the situation is fresh?

Situations change, an emergency u-turn
where am I headed now?
In an infinite sea of faces and people, why do I stick out?
How is it that I cannot blend in with a crowd
for my desire to be the chameleon, the shapeshifter, the one who fits in
is denied, as if a giant marking was made to designate me the black sheep.

Yet in a flash, everything is gone.
The memory of what was, begins to fade
chasing after it as it disappears, like a child chasing a bird that flies into the sky
I am left facing empty sky, as the bird flies away, never to be seen again.

What this flashback means, I don't know
my body seems to remember more of it than I do
so this druglike hysteria has come to a close
why are lucid dreams like this?

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People on the El [06 Feb 2006|08:59am]

[ mood | hungry ]


With long legs folded
between the seats
and only one sock,
I wonder at his cheeckbones and lips
obscured by
not-nearly-so-long fingers
heavy brow overhanging
not-yet-as-long lashes
and ice blue eyes.
When they flash my direction
the reflective strips on
dust brown shoes glows
despite the high sun
in this wintry sky.

In Leather and Courderoy

He looks like a combination
of Jerzy Kosinski
and Mel Gibson.
If only that tryst
were immortalized
in pornography.

2 comments|post comment

Two Poems [19 Jan 2006|11:37am]

In Threaded Shade and SunCollapse )

Sand Mountain 1970Collapse )
2 comments|post comment

Chicago Haiku [27 Dec 2005|12:44pm]

[ mood | full ]


She cried quietly
wiping her eyes on the train
so casually.


Slick, icy patches
adorn the darkened sidewalks
Fatal moon teardrops.


In the biting wind
on nocturnal train platforms
I sing out Ray Charles.

5 comments|post comment

Confessions of a Lonely man [18 Dec 2005|02:09am]

[ mood | bitchy ]

I'm so sorry
for the times I ignored you
hopping from one focus of attention to another
like a frog leapfrogging as each previous lily pad sinks.

I'm sorry
I should have been more to you
something more like a brother
maybe the person who should have bought you drinks.

Yet in the end
I push them all away
because nobody deserves to have to deal with my drama, my issues
I am too much for myself to handle, how am I supposed to open myself up to others?

Things come full circle
addiction comes full strength
it is now the time to embrace withdrawl
to repent upon my own mistakes
to pick up and move on
and look back on those things that I wish hadn't ended up the way they did.

Yet my heart, my pride, my all
cannot accept that even now perhaps things can be fixed
maybe I am afraid of looking beyond my nose
because in the mirror in front of me all I see is a demon
and the skeletons in the closet behind me offer no solace.

Why do I step away, at that magic moment
when I decide my own fate, I run away
fleeing into the darkness like a food source flees its predator
confronted with reality, burdened with nonconformity
I retreat into that which I am familiar with.

Find me in that darkness
bring light to my soul during these moments
all I need is love
and maybe a little company...

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Fiat Requiem MagnifiCat [19 Nov 2005|02:17pm]

[ mood | hungry ]

Fiat Requiem MagnifiCat

Not every kitten finds its way down,
tiny skeletons hiding by trunks
petrified claws stuck into branches
silent in terror and starvation,
Out of sight of suburban children
who's destiny was not
to become the saint of feline salvation.
So I raise my voice for those who would not fall,
who clung to facades of elevation-
soft fur over tiny bones fluttering with the leaves-
I shall purr you an Ave
and leave flowers strewn among the trees,
and honor a moment of silence,
For all of you who no-one bothered to save.


3 comments|post comment

For Veterans Day, a poem of father's [11 Nov 2005|09:19am]

Father ran away to the army when he was 16, in 1921. The people who trained him, and the stories he heard, were of the warriors of the first World War. I'm posting this one for Veterans Day. I was emailed by a veteran that the description of warfare is accurate.


Grey stars agleam in a blank, dead sky
    Grey guns agrowl below.

rest of poemCollapse )

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restart [05 Nov 2005|01:09pm]

Nothing quite like a muse
someone to help unleash that poetic groove
I try to use as an excuse for talent
as I make some people laugh and others wonder
while I just write nonsensical lyrics.

Life is good ah yes but at the same time
I feel like when the grass is greener on the other side
then my side must indeed not be too fresh
like what happens after a week too long for food
things we don't exactly want to find out about!

It feels like spring
yet my body recognizes the cold
I feel refreshed
yet my body is shaking
how do I explain this?
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6 train Haiku [31 Oct 2005|01:25pm]

[ mood | cheerful ]

Aging Hair Queen

Backwards faded dye
Painted toenails under hose
Resentful wrinkles


The train smells of piss.
This always makes me worry
I'm sitting in it.


She is breathtaking,
reflected in the window,
and intangible.

"Art Imitates Life"

I'm always too late.
If my timing were better,
life would be perfect.

Passing Stranger

His red worker's shirt
says, "Playboy - Photographer."
I do not doubt it.

"...but life imitates TV"

I always catch up,
still I never realize
when to stop rushing.

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Surname Forests, Remembered Leaves [22 Oct 2005|08:44am]

Ash and Eucalyptus,
Chinese Elm and common Plum;
Bark of generations built from
Lansing, Bell and Livingston.

Each spring will see them waken
To their pulsing blood-red sap,
And set upon their outstretched hand
A leaf.

A leaf.

A small and fragile promise
To the wind and to the sky
That dreams of long dead leaves
Can live again and never truly die.

To trust there will be warmth again.
To trust there will be birth.
To trust that fallen leaves
Are not forgotten on the earth.

I never knew my father
And yet I've come to know him well
Through the stories writ in crumbled leaves
And the tales our old tree tells.

He was a soldier, and a poet,
And a lover and a man
And I feel his passion flood my veins
As I hold his phantom hand.
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Remembering Mother [19 Oct 2005|08:29am]

The hikes that we took, when I was a child,
Wound through canyons and prairies and sweet sylvan nooks
Filled with wildflower storefronts and auto-clogged creeks.
I walked with my mother and saw with her eyes
Carrying all of her years with a ten year old's pride.
She didn't have money, we'd only have tea,
But she stuffed me with cupcakes of sweet memory.

She talked, as we walked, of her past college days.
Of dating young boys wrapped in old raccoon coats;
Of college professors, she knew each one's name;
Of ways that they spoke, and of jokes that they made.
She remembered the girls in green chiffon gowns
Who danced on the Midway near Ida Noyes lawn.
She remembered the statue that stood in the park,
Bearing centuries stone upon flat hair-crowned hat.

And each of these facts and small tales she would tell
As a gift to a daughter, too young to know well
How the timeless progression of time, in its day,
Could forget in an instant a moment of play.
She tried to present me these gifts, but in vain,
For my attic-stuffed drawers had a hole
That the names and the places were soon falling through
Till the drawer
  And the attic
    And cupboard
      Was bare.
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New at lj and this forum, miss U of Chicago [19 Oct 2005|06:46am]

I graduated Chicago in '67, and took my humanities class in the temporary building, finally gone, where mother met father while writing for the Daily Maroon. Father had a poetry column, The Blind Tiger, in 1929, in which he courted my 17 year old mother in poetry, and she replied. My obsession with discovering father (mother left him when I was 6 weeks old) started me writing poetry.

Mother met father in the shadow of time
Cast by permanent stones of cathedral and bells.
The building they met in was wood, thin and cheap.
I know this because I walked in that place
Thirty years from a soldier's chance meeting with fate.
So, I guess, in a sense, I'm a child of them all -
Of mother, of father, of the Humanities hall.

  She was a journalist trying to find
  In the day's small events
  Some explaining of why
  She was her,
  Who she was,
  A girl in the prime
  Of her green salad days
  Seen through sea-green young eyes.

  He was a poet explaining himself
  In the words of a soldier
  To any and all
  Who could hear with deaf ears
  What it was to be young -
  To be strong and alive
  And in love with a lady
  Who saw through your eyes.

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i don't know if this necessary appropriate [14 Oct 2005|12:08pm]

helpCollapse )
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Unknown Music [09 Oct 2005|05:21pm]

[ mood | blah ]

So there you are
so confident in knowing exactly what there is to know
people who speak in tongues trying to confuse
trying to make you say things you never said
falsifying their own memories for when it is convenient.

How do you know when you've gone too far
where nothing is gained and you have nothing to show
perhaps just being left abused
maybe wishing you were dead
yet beyond that lies a hidden meaning.

This unknown music creates ripples in my soul
like a raindrop the waves go outward
yet they do not go forever
and one drop can only make a splash;
yet I feel nothing can be more than a drop.

So different am I now from whom I once was
yet I still do not know who I am
how can I tell what has and has not changed
if I don't even know if I am the same?

New gambles arise and my luck is up for the challenge
my body quivers euphorically, anxious for another test of faith
as I step forth over the cliff that represents my battle with myself
I fall again into my own personal hell.

This unknown music shapes me in such ways I cannot describe
how can one express an unknown feeling
nothing is missing, or damage, or improved
perhaps if there is a feeling to describe feeling changed.

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South Side Haiku [06 Oct 2005|08:03pm]

[ mood | Harry Potter-y ]

Lackadaisical White Sox Fan

Two beers and a game-
this is my baseball season,
no matter who wins.

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