someday you will rise again, Bloggy baby

Poor neglected Bloggy, I am sorry I never write in you. I have a feeling your time is coming very soon, though -- I have been on a writing kick and I think it's relentless.

Here's a newish one that I don't like too much, or rather, it still needs a lot of work.

Hi Ray, I Still Love You

I had little use for my mother
in 1972. She prayed
aloud on our porch swing with suntan
hose sliding down past her housedress hem.
She prayed aloud for me for all the world
to hear and click their tongues and thank God
they had sons instead of wild daughters
like Kay Kavanaugh on Craven Street.

Do you remember this, Ray? We laughed
from your Impala at my mother
waiting, raving her prayers that some sense
would return to me. A month later,
September, I should have been in school
with the other tenth graders. But Ray,
you left me there. I had all this love
and a baby growing inside me.

My mother and I sat on the swing
and we both prayed. But her prayer canceled
mine out, I guess, because you never
came back and met Vanessa Rayanne,
who looks so much like you but never
left me. Come take the tears from my eyes,
Ray, because I saved my love for you.
I’m still here swinging, praying, waiting.

t.v. I remember from being 3 years old, part 2

Picture Pages with Bill Cosby! I even remember this particular episode, which set off my personal connect-the-dots obsession. I really, really wanted Picture Pages because I was convinced that it came with that awesome marker.

t.v. I remember from being 3 years old, part 1

The Happy Days opening credits with the Bill Haley song, "Rock Around the Clock." I remember sitting on the carpeted stairs of our house on Brooklyn Avenue watching this when I was supposed to be in bed.

swoon!

I feel like I am going to die of happiness because I got floor tickets for Wilco at Merriweather Post Pavilion. The last time Chris and I saw them there, we were in Row G -- which was a very nice row, don't get me wrong. But this is even better. It hasn't even been an entire year since I've seen Wilco (in Montreal last July) but I am suffering major withdrawal symptoms. I have had the .mp3s of the new CD for over a month, but I can't wait until it actually gets released so I can have it in my hands. I am considering buying it on vinyl because I really like the cover artwork and it would look nice hanging in our living room. (You know, since Chris says that hanging an actual portrait of Jeff Tweedy in our house is out of the question.)

Damn, I never update this blog. Things happening:

1. It's still winter. It is winter until I can stop wearing my winter coat. It is still winter. I do not like it one bit.

2. 37 days until our trip to San Francisco, Monterey, Napa and Mill Valley for Ian & Caroline's wedding.

3. My niece, Maggie Moss, is the sweetest baby in the whole world. I get to see her again on Sunday.

4. The classes I am taking this semester, though incredibly interesting, are depressing the hell out of me. Yvor Winters' poetry is giving me an existential crisis, and in the other course, which is basically an independent study, I am concentrating on the themes of depression and suicide in the works of Hart Crane, Sylvia Plath, and John Berryman.

5. My house is a disgusting, filthy mess but I refuse to spring clean until winter is over. And winter isn't over until I can stop wearing my winter coat.

thinking about summer

My brother and I used to play a game at the pool. I would stand at the water’s edge while he teetered at the end of the low-dive.

“Name of a…,” I would start, pausing while he bounced into the air.

“Peanut butter!” I’d yell.

The smart thing for him to do would be to yell back, “Jif!” before he hit the water, but if he hesitated or thought first of Peter Pan, he’d never get it out in time.

We took turns, and did this with all kinds of categories: trees, Beatles songs, the names of kids in our classes. But mostly it was brand names. All of those t.v. commercials we’d absorbed had to pay off somehow.

I'd like to dream my troubles all away...

Until about five years ago, I'd never had much interest in visiting Los Angeles. Smog, traffic, annoying surfer-dude lingo, a shallow obsession with celebrities and plastic surgery... that, I'd been told, summed the place up. But around the same time that our friend Ian moved out there and started working on movies, I got really interested in mid-century modern architecture. It seemed like practically every issue of Dwell featured some L.A. County marvel, and all of the houses I loved on various HGTV shows were either in my already-beloved Chicago or, again, in Los Angeles. The place started to sound less horrifying to me, and since Ian likes it and I have made a few friends online who live there and seem to like it, too, I wanted to check it out.

We were supposed to go to Hawaii for our big vacation this year, but when we sat down to work out the budget, we realized that we couldn't yet afford to do Hawaii the way we really wanted to do it. So it was between Austin, Texas & L.A., and since airfare to L.A. was cheaper and we'd prefer to visit Austin during SXSW, L.A. won.

After an ice storm scare at home, our flights ended up undelayed and we arrived at LAX in the middle of the California afternoon. The legendary traffic was showing off, I think, because a crane collapsed on the 405/101 interchange and we ended up sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard for three hours. Not fun. (But it was neat to creep along and recognize every single street name from pop culture.) When we finally reached our hotel, Vibe, we had a bit of a shock, as the place did not even begin to meet our expectations. Over a much-needed meal at Truly Vegan across the street, we decided to stay the first night at Vibe but arrange another hotel for the remaining five nights. As we shivered and half-slept (the window wouldn't close, the heater was broken, and the bed had only a thin blanket and sheet), various songs kept popping into my head: "Hotel California," "Los Angeles, I'm Yours," "L.A. County..." nothing terribly flattering.

The next day completely made up for the bad start, though. Since I have read Helter Skelter about 10 times, I really wanted to see Cielo Drive, where Sharon Tate and her friends were murdered. Of course, the original house is gone and the address changed slightly, but it was still chilling to drive there. The homes in Beverly Hills are mind-boggling, but the landscaping is really what set them apart for me. Everyone there must have a full-time gardener. Ian and his fiancee, Caroline, took us to Palms Thai restaurant for lunch, and then we went wine-tasting in Santa Barbara wine country. The scenery on the way up was beautiful. It's all a little fuzzy after we hit the second winery, but I think we went to five places. (We avoided the ones with signs that said "As seen in Sideways" -- cheesy!) On the way home, we stopped at an all-vegetarian Chinese place for dinner where our waitress had a high, squeaky voice like an anime character. Our new hotel, The Mayfair, had certainly seen better days, but it was a palace compared to our former lodging. It also had the advantage of being only 10 blocks from Ian & Caroline's loft across the street from MacArthur Park -- Wikipedia says it actually IS the place where he left the cake out in the rain. I am so excited; my dad loved that song.

On Sunday morning we woke up bright and early, since our bodies were still on Baltimore time, and we drove back to Hollywood for their Sunday farmer's market. It was amazing to us that during "winter" they had three times the produce that our favorite farmer's market has during its peak in August. I bought dates, raisins, and an onion bagel, and Chris got a loaf of olive bread. It was a great place to people-watch, and when Ian & Caroline showed up, Caroline pointed out Charlize Theron just a few yards away from us. (My other celebrity sighting is uncorroborated, but I swear that I was a foot away from Johnny Depp in Whole Foods across the street from The Grove later in the week. But I reluctantly admit that it could have just been another exceptionally beautiful man who looks & dresses exactly like Johnny Depp.) After the market, we walked back up Hollywood Boulevard, past the creepy L. Ron Hubbard Life Exhibition building, over those famous sidewalk stars, and back to Truly Vegan for breakfast. We ate too much, and the hot noon sun beckoned us towards an air-cooled building: Amoeba Music. We spent an hour or so making mental notes of things to add to our wish lists, and we bought a fair number of CDs there, too. Then we drove over to Book Soup, but Chris was far more impressed than I was. I hate to say it, but the big chain bookstores have given me expectations that most independent stores just can't meet. I can make allowances for a small, crowded store if the selection is amazing, but Book Soup was kind of anti-literary. They did have a really stunning art book section, but since the place is cramped, it doesn't make leafing through the books a lot of fun. After a rest in our hotel, Ian joined us for a trip to the Trader Joe's in Silver Lake. Okay, not fair: not only do they have amazing wine prices and vegan chocolate chip cookies, but they sell actual hard liquor -- tequila! vodka! scotch! All way cheaper than in Baltimore's liquor stores. We drove around Silver Lake (I have also seen it spelled Silverlake; not sure what's correct) and I got to see many of the houses of my dreams. Then we went to Little Ethiopia for dinner, and back to Ian & Caroline's to (what else) drink more wine.

Monday morning we went to the George C. Page Museum at Rancho La Brea Tar Pits. (The bright yellow photo in the collage is of their exhibit of dire wolf skulls that were excavated from the tar pits.) After braving the school groups to learn about the geological history of the area, we walked up Fairfax to the Farmers Market, which is a permanent semi-outdoor market and not to be confused with the Sunday market in Hollywood. We had lunch at Singapore's Banana Leaf, and we were not disappointed. My fish curry was amazing and Chris loved his salad. Then we walked back down to Wilshire and saw the Magritte exhibit, amongst other wonderful things, at LACMA. Magritte is one of my favorite painters, so I was thrilled to be able to see so much of his work together. They really did an excellent job curating this exhibit. (I put the exhibition catalog on my Amazon wishlist and plan to buy it as soon as I can afford it.) Then we backtracked to vegan-friendly Mani's bakery for some spectacular cupcakes after we walked off our lunch. After our daily hotel room rest, we called our friend Pete who lives in Manhattan Beach with his girlfriend, also, crazily enough, named Caroline. We were in the mood for sushi, so we decided to meet them at a place called Tengu that we found in a glossy tourist magazine that was in our hotel room. It was in Westwood, the neighborhood by UCLA, and we weren't quite prepared for the outrageous menu (prices nor concoctions). Our waiter, Wayne, was super-friendly and helpful, and we all managed to settle on dishes that wouldn't completley wipe out our bank accounts. Chris and I shared a flight of sakes, and Pete got a strange sushi "shooter." After dinner we walked through the neighborhood and had some ice cream. (None for poor Chris, because it wasn't vegan ice cream.)

Tuesday was another beautiful, clear, perfect day -- do they have anything else in Los Angeles? -- and we headed to Getty Center. People had mentioned that the gardens there were nice, but nothing had prepared me for the bountiful plantlife. I have never been into gardening, but this place was truly inspiring. We must have spent ninety minutes walking around the big garden while Chris photographed every plant he liked. The view over L.A. was kind of smoggy, but I still got some good shots. We also had this really delicious melon 100% fruit slurpee-like drink. Oh, and there was a photography exhibit that really spoke to me, and that exhibition catalog is on my Amazon wishlist too. Since it was so nice out, we thought it was the perfect day to visit Venice Beach. Only,when we got there, it was so foggy and cold that we decided to just eat our Mediterranean lunch and head back to L.A. That night we went to Ian & Caroline's and got take-out Vietnamese food from Blossom. I accidentally ordered something that was full of beef, so I didn't eat very much. I played a lot with their fabulous cats, Chloe and Crosby. Chloe got a little too rambunctious and tried to break my camera while I was photographing her, but Chris fixed it pretty quickly. (It did not escape my attention that I have 6 photos each of those cats, but not a single photo of Chris or any of our friends.)

Our last full day, Wednesday, was bittersweet. The last day of vacation always is for me. We went back to Mani's and got lunch and baked goods, stocked up with airplane treats at Whole Foods, and took a stroll through downtown. I got to visit the main branch of the public library, which knocked my socks off with its adorable gift shop. We walked over to MoCA, but sadly, our guidebooks misled us into thinking they would be open. That was a big disappointment. We saw the Disney Concert Hall and visited their gift shop. We wandered sadly around downtown, not knowing what to do with the afternoon we'd reserved for MoCA. Finally, we decided to go back to Hollywood. I needed some introvert time (it's really hard for me to go that many days without any reading or writing) so I went to Borders. Chris went back to Amoeba and then drove around a bit. At dinnertime, Ian took us to a fun, boisterous, CHEAP sushi place. $3 sake was right up our alley after Tengu. Then we went back to Ian & Caroline's to drink our last bottle of wine with them before we see them for their wedding this May in Mill Valley. (Two California trips in 4 months -- aren't we spoiled?)

There were still plenty of things I wanted to do in L.A., so I'd love to visit again. I didn't get to meet any of my online friends, not that I was very good about making advance arrangements to do so. I'd like to do a mid-century modern architecture tour. Obviously, I want to go to MoCA when they're open. I'd like to see the Getty Villa, and the Huntington, and go shopping on Melrose. I am sure that there are hundreds of things I don't even know about that I would
love, too. We were kind of sad that we didn't get to see any live music while we were there, but I guess it was a slow week for that while we were there. Oh, and we didn't get any mashed yeast.

field day pyramid

field day pyramid
Originally uploaded by sharkycharming.

This photo is from the first roll of film I ever shot, when I was 9. We were (mostly) 4th graders at St. Gabriel's School in Charlotte. The girls are wearing shirts that say 'Six Pack Plus'. Some of the girls (not me) started a "club" called Six Pack, and then they somehow got roped into including the rest of us. (Probably someone's mother decided that they were being too cliquey.)

bottom row, left to right: Renate Duerbeck, Jamey Brownd, Tim Williams, Jonathan Sweeney.

middle row, left to right: Mary Ann Santos, Kristin Farmer, Jennifer Kornicki.

top: Monica Rief.

Standing behind Mary Ann and Kristin: Sarah Cozon.

Between Monica's legs: Heather Nivens.

Behind Jennifer: Jeannine Hojnicki.

Attemping to climb onto Jonathan Sweeney: Jonathan Kornicki.

Laughing and pointing at Jonathan Sweeney: Ginny Keane.

feeding goats in New Hampshire

1010-farm1
Originally uploaded by kismet09.

Last weekend I visited my friends Kate and Tim in Massachusetts. We took a drive up to New Hampshire and picked apples at DeMerritt Farm. They had a pig, miniature horses, and these adorable pygmy goats. I fed them the pretzels I had gotten on my flight up from Baltimore (as pictured here).

I know it's a cliche, but New England during Autumn really does make one happy to be alive.

soup & school

This morning's weather -- dark, drizzly, cool but not cold -- kept making me think of soup labels. All I can figure is that my mother must have sent me to school on a day like this with the Campbell's soup labels that she had saved over the summer. The labels always had those ridges from the shape of the can, and they were fastened together with a paper clip.

Maybe I should be Jewish, because I really think that the "new year" starts in September. I love September and October. I don't think I'll ever outgrow my affection for school supplies, new shoes and socks, book covers, buying Halloween candy, brightly-colored maple trees, acorns on the sidewalk, caramel apples, and sunny, low-humidity days. Even the few bad things about early autumn (football season, yellowjackets, increased traffic) are pretty easy to get over. I can't wait to start buying fresh apples at the farmer's market. I can't wait to start wearing sweaters and corduroy pants again. I can't wait to stop shaving my legs every time I take a shower. I can't wait to make knishes and a nice hearty soup.

random memories

tony and bucky, his musical doll

I have a very good memory when it comes to food and music, even if there is no other reason to remember that particular event.

I remember a time when I was very small (3 or 4) and visiting Aunt Rita. She gave me yogurt in a green tupperware dish, and we sang the song that goes, Heather is a friend of mine, she resembles Frankenstein, When she does the Irish jig she looks more like Porky Pig.

I remember eating Tootsie Roll Drops outside at Bethany Beach on a very sunny summer day when my brother was an infant. I must have been 2.5 years old.

Whenever I hear the song "Here Comes the Rain Again" by Eurythmics I think of the time we heard it on Sardis Road in Charlotte on the way to drop my brother off at soccer practice. And thinking about his soccer practice always gets me to thinking about the orange slices they had at his soccer games.

Whenever I hear "Boys of Summer" by Don Henley I think of the time we heard it on the way to my basketball game at the Metro Center when I was in 5th grade.

At Sarah Cozon's house in 4th grade we jumped on the bed and listened to Duran Duran, and then her mother gave us those hot dogs that had veins of cheese running through the middle.

At Jennifer Kornicki's house in 3rd grade, Jennifer, Kristin Farmer, and I listened to the 45 of "Puttin' On the Ritz" by Taco and looked at a Penthouse magazine that one of us found somewhere. (That one's a little disturbing -- sorry.)

I remember (around the age of 9) making peanut butter candy with Brandi Pearson (we did this regularly -- in fact, I think I could still do it without a recipe) and listening to country music on the radio. We heard "9 to 5" followed by "The Devil Went Down to Georgia." I also remember that riding in her father's truck to their farm in South Carolina we heard "Tell Her About It" by Billy Joel.

When I was on the high dive at Charlotte Swim & Racket when I was 10 I heard "Everything She Wants" by Wham! By the way, that exclamation point is part of the band's name -- not an indication of my own excitement about that memory.

What I really want to do is make a gigantic table of song, food, location, year, and other people present. I hope it won't be another four months before my next entry, though.

Feb. 9 already? Where has the time gone? I am exhausted. I need to scan some photos and things this weekend so that I have more interesting things to post here.1st grade, 1979.
The sins of Sister Carmen, RSM:
1. Locked me in the supply closet for forgetting my field trip permission slip and crying about it, and then forgot about me until lunchtime when I banged on the door. That was like, three hours alone in a cold closet. I didn't tell my mother until 8th grade or something.
2. Wouldn't let kids go to the water fountain if they lost a tooth in class. Said that we shouldn't be wiggling our loose teeth at school. Forced to bleed onto a kleenex until lunch.
3. On the last day of school, gave out certificates that said things like, "Great at Math," or "Keeps a neat desk." (I didn't get either of those, rest assured, but mine was something about being quiet and good.) Gave Eddie Fordham a certificate that said, "Worst Kid in the Class."

Poetry Exercise

I love to invent poetry exercises, and I hope to post many here. Feel free to use and change this however you wish – the original content on this site is covered by the Creative Commons Attribution-Non Commercial-Share Alike 2.5 license. Also, if you try this exercise yourself and want to share your results, I would love to read your poem. If you email it to me and send your snail-mail address, I will send you a postcard.

Have you seen Amazon’s new Concordance feature? Find a book that interests you and has the Search Inside capability. If you scroll down to the Inside This Book section, you can click on Concordance and get a list of the 100 most prevalent words in that book.

-Write down the 25 words you like best from that list.
-Write a poem with 5 stanzas of 5 lines each and use one of those words in each line.
-Each line should have 10, 11, or 12 syllables.

3rd grade

1981-82

Things I remember:
-the 8th graders all saw Bye Bye Birdie on TBS the night before (as did I) and they walked by our classroom window singing "We Love You Conrad."

-Renate D. allegely stole Jeannine H.'s colored pencils, and Jeannine told Renate that she was taking her to People's Court.

-Mrs. Baisley put a Hershey bar on your desk before you got to school in the morning if it was your birthday. She also gave Hershey bars as prizes for classroom contests, which I often won. For instance, I won the contest to see who could write down the most pairs of homonyms in 20 minutes.

-My Dad had his first heart attack while we were in Maryland for my Aunt Rita & Uncle Jerry's wedding. That was scary, but I got to go to school with my cousin Nancie. Being the little know-it-all that I was, I kept raising my hand to answer questions in Nancie's class. Her teacher kept saying, "You all are in 4th grade and Heather came all the way from 3rd grade in SOUTH CAROLINA and she can do your work better than you can." And I kept having to chime in and say, "NORTH Carolina."

-News trickled up from the little school that there was a strange little boy in Kindergarten who was obsessed with rock music, especially The Beatles, and he had brought his guitar for show-and-tell. Any ideas who that was?

View from my apartment in the Wilma, Summer 1998

Fostering

written spring 2005

Fostering

Taken from where they supplemented
‘stop barking dammit dog’
with ‘mercy oh mercy mighty’
and there might arise
kedgeree from the squeaking
saucepot -- our spaniel’s vacant belly
believed this as we believed
that uncle drilled auntie until
she poured forth cousin Lucy,
red lichen swabbed behind the medulla
oblongata, born scarcely distinguishable
from the Aleutian sandpiper save for
the umbilicus and her soft, featherless bottom.

Be focused now on water led past us
by the host population, wiseacres
sown with summer squash --
one of a dozen noted substitutions
for tangy oblong fruit. They ought to have
a duller word for that. Easy to see
the fulfillment of a brown pod tipped palish
and escaped caged birds flying toward
the sea, their beaks positioned for bathymetry
and meat in streaky sea waters. If we could
watch long enough for proof, the tongue
would freeze between predator and prey,
rattling the corner between two flashes.

After

written summer 2005

After

With nowhere to stop, I drove to the Laundromat.
A succession of molded orange chairs
opposed a row of avocado washers, their
mouths like Communicants, thrust wide
for quarters. A boy in rubber clogs brushed
his mother’s long, red hair. I perched
with my knees tucked into my armpits
atop the washer nearest the plate-glass window
and watched the reflection of the bristles
dividing the strands while her hands paired clean socks.
Hair has no lungs and neither does flame.

Missoula, Montana. Summer 1994. Really.

Poets & Poetry-Lovers:

Please recommend a poetry book. It can be a chapbook, too, or even a literary journal -- just something that you love, and that you think I would love too. It doesn't matter if you don't know me -- I will investigate all leads.

Thanks very much.

rejection letter

written summer 2005



rejection letter

never late enough in the day the drowsiness
however it clusters between my throat and eyes

marks the afternoon with unexpected cloudfall
which puts the cat in a position to exit

the smooth lap where I sigh us through a Tuesday fog
out through the visqueened back window as I begin

the remote half-letter you neglected to send
until your unpleasant in-laws arrived with damp

kitty-litter stuck in their soles which suggests you
have summarized us as birds in a rainstorm or

wind through a birdstorm but not necessarily
asylum again from charmless hometown parties

December 1978

It's around this time in January every year when I start to realize, "Damn. Christmas is really over."

On the plus side, only 11 months until my birthday.

Postal Sestina

from spring 2004

Postal Sestina

I’m never well on Sunday when you don’t deliver mail.
I skitter through the kitchen making peach
pie, lime tarts, and I listen to my spy-
story tape. (They’ve bugged the mayor’s pillow
and tantalized him with arresting blue-
eyed women.) But listen to me chatter –

my husband plugs his ears from the chatter
of girls. On Monday when you bring the mail
I’ll recognize the script on a bright blue
note stamped with a commemorative peach.
Perhaps I’ll read it seated, the pillow
rigid against my back, and when I spy

a line of Basque poetry I will spy
the psyche of a lunatic. Chatter
with loud mocking through the crazy pillow
he left in our bed. He’s the yo-yo, mail
carrier, not I. Won’t you stay for peach
pie? Lime tart? Your uniform is as blue

as my January fingertips, blue
like a bathtub daisy decal. I spy
your smile, mister. You have one lovely peach
of a mouth. I jest! My silly-girl chatter
will keep you from delivering the mail.
Could you leave me to ravish my pillow?

What stain is this ruining our pillow?
A yellow tinge has seeped into the blue
ticking. I’ll have to send away by mail
to find a solvent worthy of a spy
like me. When I worry I chatter –
I could chatter the fuzzy off a peach!

Do I dare to decorticate a peach?
His brain drained from his ear to the pillow
and deafened him against my sad chatter
and I turned to find his lower lip blue
and his upper lip stiffened like a spy
at night, this man who never sends mail.

I’ll never chatter to you, my brave peach,
when you bring the mail. Lie on this pillow?
Everything gleams blue when you’re a good spy.

2 Sonnets

from summer 2005

What She Remembers Well, But Not Fondly

A face appeared to hover in the town’s
Marsh Hawk preserve behind the softball field,
way back beyond third base, a reluctant post
for an emaciated visionary
who wore a ring on every digit, thumbs
included. Glove between her knees, home plate
just an obscure echo of “swing batter”
behind her, that face grew encephalitic
and red. Was this a burning beachgoer
off-course with sun-poisoning? A balloon-
seller’s gimmick? She aimed her topaz ring
toward the sun and caught a glint to fend off
the face’s mad advance, but it heckled
and spat back whatever weapon felled her.



What She Remembers Fondly, But Not Well

Black cowboy boots. A floppy blond hairstyle
that covered one eye. A name sewn over
his pocket: Beau, or Glenn, or was it Rhett?
The May humidity intensified
the scent of marsh marigolds and the boy’s
hands, washed recently with black Lava soap
and hose-water in the gas station lot.
He looked too young to work there, and too clean.
It might have been the final day of school
because the sun was right overhead, noon,
and she had never been brave like the kids
who skipped out in nice weather. An embrace,
her first good kiss, and the discovery,
later, of spearmint gum in her pocket.

Why We Do It

Fall 2005

Why We Do It

To see you leave, I keep my compass in my eyes.
I string the scarf you left around my bed like garland.
To feed the army, you chop and char the trees.
You provoke her beehive with a birch branch.
To recognize the bridge, she farms beneath its roadbed.
She informs the monk that she believes in him and his.
To standardize the slang, he deafens the population.
He scares it into the drawers of an antique desk.
To treat the latest blight, it meets the forebears.
It stocks rifles and brown paper for our motorcade.
To rise before twilight, we savor Ackerman’s cherry tobacco.
We rely on the mail for your private speculation.
To keep them out of the street, you run their dogs.
You draw your plans on ninety-pound vellum.
To prophesy the weather, they telephone Poland.
They brush back embarrassment from their bald and yellow heads.

Dance, Liana, Dance

from Spring 2003

Dance, Liana, Dance

This morning you’re the queen of pitch.
Around the room without your shoes

you carve a naked dance-step, in time
with suspense between the braking

of cars that yield to morning glare.
There’s trouble in Bolivia,

catastrophe on Mt. Rainier.
You press the message into motions

of head-to-knee and hand-to-wall,
the screen of your skirt eclipsing

gardenias on the wallpaper.
The left arm a comma, the right

arm an apostrophe. The clefts
between the floorboards never pinch

your toes the way they pull out threads
from stocking feet. My mistakes

repeat themselves with clumsy tread,
so dance, Liana, dance again.

4 Very Short Poems

Written during Spring 2004.


Today in Public Works

One Baltimore street
smoothed so thin it cracked
with cumin-colored
and chocolate-covered
night-squandering rats.


You Were Missing in My Latest Dream

He collected bracelets, gold
mined from a tourist beach
where poems never belonged.
He hung them from the willow
with twine. I sharpened my comb
in search of permanent waves
to weed. These dangle from trees.


10,001 Days Before My Birth

It may have rained and ruined someone’s
best pillow, and made her cry again,
another little knife in a month
spent swallowing hard. She lit the stove
and pruned the kitchen garden. There may
have been a thumb-pianist with her
in the room, releasing note after
tin note. Someone may have photographs.
A cricket species may have gone extinct.


Window Sill

Cilantro spills from a blue china dog.
A pink plastic razor and shavings
of crayons curled into small scrolls,
melted into traffic light pools. Paint,
chipped, the kind you should never eat.
What do you see, from your perch
in the balsa tree? Only the golden glare.

Relief Effort

Another one from Spring 2003...


Relief Effort

The iridescent sheen of maritime
disaster held the landscape under glass
while every child required swimming lessons
and every woman craved bouillabaisse. Men
absconded, bearded with mountain knowledge,
and deigned to bring their wives thick sprays of ferns
for table exhibitions. Summer oozed.
The unctuous bursts of wind refused to settle.

Along an arm of the harbor, a girl
lay drowned, her braid looped on an old crab trap,
the water there no deeper than her knees
when she still breathed. Her brother brought her there
to photograph old rowboats, rotting piers,
and trash that docked itself between the stumps.
She’d swum to get a better shot of tugs
against the backdrop of the smooth green water,

and then? The Gladiolus Ladies from
a church across the county brought cream cakes
and flower boxes. Not knowing what to do—
who did?—for the kids, policemen set up
a water-slide on the park’s only incline.
Twelve sheets of black plastic slick with the stream
from a garden-green hose in the crabgrass,
the children shivered down the hill to mud.

My letter from the Pope

The Aftershock of Something

Written spring 2003

The Aftershock of Something

I ran my hands through pounds of rice, the rough
grains abrading the feeble tissue at the crotches
of my fingers, the freezing water turned milky
from starch. I pleaded for some gloves or salve
but she, the mistress of that game, had toughed
out swallowing a boiler of briny soup,
and so her bitten heart enjoyed my ache.

They salted the bed sheets. My swollen appendages
were not my swollen own. The rapt voyeurs
had much to say about Nevada’s blind,
like, “Grapes for eyes,” and “Stole my hogs,”
so I was left to foxtrot for my reputation.

I swathed my legs in gauzy paper lace,
allowed to be evacuated North
and tie the tent-straps tight, and tie the vines

before weevils mastered the knotted stalks.

Moptops, 1981

Moptops, 1981
Originally uploaded by sharkycharming.

My brother, Tony, was three years old when he taught himself to read. He couldn't stand the idea of not knowing what it said on the back of my mother's Beatles records. Ever the completist, even at age five he was desperate to fill in some gaps in our Beatles collection -- hence this photo of him beaming on Christmas morning in 1981. Rubber Soul is also my favorite Beatles record, in case you were wondering.

Are You a Pink Cloud Now?

Another one from spring of 2004.


I don’t believe in ghosts but I believe
you haunt me – not very grandmotherly
of you, but you were more inclined to fix
a frozen pizza than a latticework pie,
and we both scoffed at the biddies wearing
tight blue curls and shopping for big, modest
panties. Tell me – I’ve always wondered – how
do they decide which clothes your ghost will wear?

Do you iron silk blouses and fix your hair?
When you visit Pop-Pop, are you twenty,
just months before your wedding, or would he
not recognize his bride on the cusp
of the second half of the century?

But maybe you haven’t kept that body,
and that’s why I’ve heard you scolding me,
smelled your cigarette smoke in the hot night air,
felt you, a spicy warmth below my heart –
the place I’ve always thought of as my soul –
but I haven’t seen and can’t recall your eyes.

Congregant

I write a lot of poems about religion. That's what 13 years of Catholic school will do to a girl.
This one was written during the spring of 2004.

Congregant

On my back, having procured
my weekly Mass-time Tic-Tac
from my grandmother’s pocketbook,
I watched the white noise of Father’s homily
bounce from wooden beam to crucifix
and tried to keep my patent leather shoes
from tapping this song into the pew:
Oh, life could be a dream (sh-boom)
If I could take you up in paradise up above …
That realization! life
could be a dream, like the one
I dreamed the night before, the one
where the fisherman statue came to life
and chased me until I fell off the pier—
the idea burned, a small mint
lodged between the Gospel and the Creed.

First Day

This is something that started in 1998 and was revised in 2004.

First Day

One glance proclaims it: I am unwelcome here.
I trespass, my fly-fire dim amid the halos,
a parasite shunted from chorus to heavenly

choir. My language is clatter. I caterwaul.
My tongue bloats in the fine air of paradise,
a litany of mispronunciations, elocution

disrobing the minstrel sinner. They herald
the influx of beasts from the famine:
godwits and zebu and one jumping mouse.

Blessed be I? Never mind my felicitous past?
I invoke the words of Sister Carmen Cruz:
“Heaven will be candy-studded, dark chocolate

doves and boulevards paved with divinity.”
One strong wind could suffer me into darkness,
away from the tedious aspirations

of the born-again. Others have failed
before me, they say. Others could not
be scrubbed clean. Some brilliance fades.

Running for a Bus

written Spring 2003:

Running For a Bus

Who prizes nickel treasure more than I?
That which satisfies a slight desire for figs
creates extended longing when the palate
dries. Uncap a sigh, trigger the lens.
Recant that covenant with modest men
who never sullied names or sheets of white

kenaf. Those whistles in my head produce
a dirty laugh. No Cadillac? No skates?
I’m running for a bus to keep a date
with Old McCoy the Sailor, former pitchman
for Cartoon Classics on the UHF dial.
He keeps a pack of Tareytons under his hat.

The seaman knows I’d rather fight than bitch
about my lunar folly. He harpooned
me once before I left my native alleys,
but no one saw my bliss. They sent a powder
to cure me of the blight, and that’s the night
the last bus sent me here to lead attacks.