Bodega Publication

I am very honored that Bodega magazine has published two of my poems in this month’s issue, along with poetry by Megan Merchant, Andrew Koch, and fiction by Christine Hennessey. Take a gander here.

It’s true that I’ve taken a bit of a break from writing on wordpress–I have been submitting more, and trying to post more writing on Tumblr, as it’s a format that I am a bit more comfortable with. I have started participating in a trend called the 4 minute diary, so if you are looking for more short little things, you can see some of my work (along with many other reblogs) there.

I had a dream I lived in a mushroom house I reblogged on tumblr and that I was at a loft party full of adults because now I am an adult and children are no longer friends they are responsibilities or dating tests disguised as minor annoyances so now I have to dream about talking to adults all day long and I am pretty sure we were on a roof that was maybe in Toronto and there was a fire pit on at this roof party and I was talking to no one but was having a good time and Ed Taylor was there and Julian Montague was there so it may have had something to do with books but this makes no sense because books don’t make money. Maybe we were burning them to keep warm. Suddenly we were in a sushi restaurant in New York and I knew it was New York because the bill was $2367.50 for sushi and an okay beer and I remember that the tea cost at least $60. I don’t remember who two of you were but there were four of us and one was my mother so there were two more. We must have been there all night because I remember trying to decide if I wanted orange juice and ever since I broke up with my last ex I only drink orange juice in the morning. Some things just drift into dreams like that. Last night was the first time in five months the rain helped me go to sleep. It kept me there too, when I woke up too hot I didn’t stop dreaming. I got dressed in the sushi restaurant with the rain pouring down and we are still there, the bill insurmountable. I am trying to figure out if $375 for tip is stingy. You are sitting next to me, leaning across the table and away from my shoulder, worried as always, and I cannot remember who you are.

Top Five Things to do on Sunday

Sleep in. Treasure your body, radiating beneath covers and blankets and half awakened hibernation. Your world is your bed and the world is good. It hugs you back and you are a cattail, fluffy and ready to bend to the wind.

Technically, it is advised that you spend today making food. As the weekend nears you forget this, among your many other things to do. You won’t go to a grocery store on a Sunday—to pass by the mother’s grabbing things for tonight’s dinner, for the game, bags of chips whisked off shelves and into infinite checkout lines. You’d rather be hungry than dead.

Sunday is for homework. You have rested on Saturday, and the Sabbath; it’s really a matter of perspective. You reward yourself handsomely for very little work. This is acceptable. Your dishes are piling up, and you know that you will end up with no lunch packed for tomorrow.

Read. It doesn’t matter if you read Peter or Margaret or The Wind In the Willows. Read trash cans. Imbibe something.

Sunday is they day you would be trite, or naive, or cliché. Be a part of a movement you’ve never heard of, be new in being old, sympathetic, erratic, overtly and overwhelmingly sincere. Be new sincere. Be worried about the amount of asphalt in Wyoming. Be excellent.

Top Five Things to do on Wednesday

Eggs are by fair examination, ignored for their graciousness. Crack open yellow suns of hope and bubble in a fry pan on low. Make sure you eat the yoke, bear the yoke, be the yoke. Yoke. You know.

Re: go through and delete the meme emails you’ve gotten. Savior each, and discard. Cats should not plug up your virtual world. The virtual world is infinite, feline and impartial. Research suggests the internet knows you. It recognizes who you are. It just doesn’t care.

You’re already here bathing in the warm orange light. Down cracked sidewalks, sweating through a work layer, free. You know this is bad–forever, for all. You haven’t even opened a loyalty card, but here it is in your palm. And you want the Sierra Turkey. You’re here, with “work friends” who will one day be three-dimensional-non-holographic real friends. Someday you won’t need a baguette to talk. Panera. We are full and broken and somehow guilty.

Come back to work and sit down. Sit and tilt your head at a thirty degree angle. You are a plane of existence. This plane will hide your ambivalence, you are all and you are insignificant. Work, and do not check your social media for now.

Curl into your shell. Here is a couch and lie on it. Your comfort. You are a wounded animal tail to tip in your burrow. Try to find a corner in your body to hide in. A lump. Put yourself away from your fingertips and make sure there is enough for tomorrow.