Tuesday, January 03, 2012

In A Long Time

I am totally heartbroken.

I spent xmas alone. and crying.

I spent New Years alone. and crying.

Every once in a while, crying, I get angry. Like, why.

And then I hear a talk show host in my head, giving the strong talk.

you know. be strong. x x x could be so much worse. you don't have it that bad.

and --

who wants to hear your whining. in fact there is a voice of someone in particular i hear

someone I know -- isn't that sad -- sneering at me.

I didn't feel like anyone cared.

And if they did care, I didn't feel they could be comforting.

Until I texted D yesterday. She was kind.

And I talked to S. today who let me cry on the phone with her and told me phenomenal things.

And then Ch. called me. And said she knew what I meant. That she was back in town and to call whenever.

I needed some comforting today.

Like a mom might, if you have a mom like that.

I don't have a mom anymore and I am very sad about that.

I miss.

I miss very much.

Monday, June 30, 2008

Me in Oakland

I think it will rain. But it's just fog. I think it's fog. But it's just smoke.

What have I done:
--went to my goddaughter's birthday party, she's one -- unbelieveable
--went to the Dyke March in SF
--went to breakfast in Berkeley
--went to temple service at Ile Orunmila Oshun
--at in Emeryville
--went to bed at 7pm PST! UGH!

Trying to relight my pilot.

Monday, June 18, 2007

Teach for Hysteria: The Next Last Poet

This, from my student, Tianna, on the vicissitudes. printed here with her permission.

Tianna G.

misconceptions of me
in general misconceived thoughts of you
love is detrimental to our health
detriment and animosity go hand in hand
misconceiving thoughts of a childhood well spent.
the intricate molds that loses
laughter is our medicine
us amongst the midst of persuasive,
jokes are our cure
promiscuous, prompting individuals
fastidious amounts to intelligence,
lies are our sickness
intellectuall matters are best
secrets are our disease
left to the dogs
being metacognetive led to being a fool
i might as well do this before i
fools amongst fools is normal
fade completely
fools amongst genius is a riot
who is tianna latrice
every person knows a lonely feeling
we count our
lucky stars to say we did
falling from heights makes me invincible
but holding on made me seen
swinging from dreams means
we are conceited because we
are assured they will hold us

sincerely and forever yours Tianna

ps i decided that my heart is forever going to be art and writing so therefore when i am to old to be tianna i swear to you and myself that i will always write no matter were i am and how i am but something has got to change for better or worse so i am leaving this poem as Tianna's final will and testament because only angels go to heaven the sky is not the limit your mind and imagination is the limit when ever you think of me think of this angel blowing kisses BYE.

Sunday, June 10, 2007

Wednesday, December 06, 2006


I never told my mother

The first fall, a parted mouth,
liver-stained liquid draining
from the corner
of a dead woman’s face.

The churning in the gut
at the proximity
to the hateful sphere.

The way the body echoes mine,
distorted in a house of mirrors,
and then, so smug,
so smug;
we are not yet free of our dancing burden.

Chorus of transcriptions.
Legacy of dandelions
and dendrites,
from each to the other
hormones call,
unlucky in their perseverance of flight.

You’re next, says the agitated crab,
hungry for pulmonary enzymes.
On the delicious lick
of the fingers
when the mitochondria
are distracted.

My hipbone is not so distinct
from the tilt of a chimpanzee
and my closest living relative
no longer shares my chromosomes.
Distinctly, Y’s everywhere are shrinking,
the genes jumping to other chains.

Is this what it means to evolve?
To become parenthesis in a limbo of spiraling heavens —
this new cosmology claims my teeth.

Look, we bear the same
It took 37 years
for the C-section
to fade back
to smooth flesh —
Could I stretch like you? Yellow
and without marks.

I won’t say your name
to a grave.

I drag small planets along
a curb lined with
shaking cats.

Orion blazes
into a belt of fire.

The chasm
into which
I have dropped
my breath

with regret.

Take back the monitor
tick tocking into nothingness.

Come back, my hateful, ugly one.

Take into this night
my terrible cry.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Art Lives!

Two very amused tourists stood in front of the building next door to mine. They were capitivated by the tiny figurines capering on the first floor windowsill.

"Do you think we can take a picture?" they asked in that indeterminate Northern European-ish accent that sounds like a femme version of the chef from the muppets.

"Yeah," I said, "sure. But this is sort of an installation, it changes every day. So you should come back tomorrow and take another picture." I myself had been seduced by the little plastic dancers who skipped between the rusted bars -- Smurfs, plastic horses, soldiers, my little ponies -- in an ever changing circle of life.

I went by yesterday, and they had been replaced by someone a bit more disarming. I am not sure what this particular incarnation means. But I remember watching this show, and that it taught me a damn good lesson. He is a bad guy. There is some electricity. What do you think?

NYC Foto File: The Secret Life of Benches

Can you come up with a caption for these Central Park scenes, near the Strangers Gate?

Tuesday, December 20, 2005


On the city info line the guy practically SCREAMS, "Due to ILLEGAL TRANSIT STRIKE!"

What to do? How is this day gonna unfold?