Monday Potes (on Tuesday, of course!): On the Day of the Bicycle Mammogram

A few weeks ago I gave a weekend workout assignment that I enjoyed so much I haven’t stopped. It was a writing ritual I had created for myself 9 years ago that became the manuscript for my chapbook Her Red Book. Once I got back into the ritual (very basically: writing in 3rd person early in the morning and just before going to bed, and always titling it FIRST with On the Day of, On the Night of, On the Morning of. . . etc) I quickly realized what a gem it was and couldn’t believe it had taken me so many years to try it again. I’ve wracked up several of them that I’m already editing and have decided to post a few, even though they still feel a bit precious. On the Day of the Bicycle Mammogram She rides on an uneven day west a straight shot...

Thought About You

Okay, a singularly unoriginal title for my experiment. The last writing workout was writing about loss. I had wanted to write a poem for a friend on the anniversary of her death, so I experimented by writing snippets, thoughts, images, mememories of her out on cards over the whole weekend and then collaging them into a poem. At one point I had gone out for the evening and forgot that I was “remembering” Gabrielle over the weekend until the next morning, then felt guilty for forgetting. So that’s in here, too. Thought About You For Gabrielle Bouliane, One Year Gone I’m done baking and remember you. Remember that I’m supposed to be remembering. I want to say I’m sorry for every minute gone by, but that is mortal guilt and not for angels or...

Monday Potes on Tuesday: Retro-Pome

I’ve been wanting to write about the birds for weeks. We have character birds in the neighborhood. They are my confidants. But alas, the poem has not unwound itself from the glue-sticky of fresh wordness. So, I am posting a retro poem. If you can call the early 90’s retro. I was flipping through an old poetry chapbook I printed 16 years ago and found this funny little piece. The idea of the poem was to write 3 stanzas using all the the same words, but in a different order each time. I notice that I stayed with the same 4 commas, semi-colon and tab space, too. But I did take one small liberty. Can anyone spot it? It’s not as hard as you might think. If you do, I will mail this chapbook to you. It feels like freshman Danika Dinsmore poetry, but at...

Monday Potes: ReFound

For kicks and giggles I randomly opened an old journal to see what I would find. I found the original version of a poem from my book Every Day Angels. Because my kicks and giggles quota is down, I decided to edit the original journal poem again, to see what I would come up with. My only rule was that I couldn’t end or start with the same lines. I ended up with something completely different. HERE: mysterious one HRB is the version that ended up in Every Day Angels BELOW is the version from today. I highly recommend this as a writing exercise if you are having muse issues. Take the original (hand written / in journal if you can find them) from years back, another lifetime ago so that you are in a new place, wiser, more experienced, more cynical, whatever....

Monday Potes – Dropped Pages

“Dropped Pages” is a series of poems that were, for whatever reason, left out of my books. I can never really finish tweaking them or being totally satisfied with the results. This one was left out of Her Red Book On the Night of the Flood of Ghosts For M.L. He says we’re those kind of friends some day one of us will be at the other’s funeral She pulls the death card scythe and burning vardo in Texas flooding takes their friend’s home away and homes in Russia and the streets of Prague as Nigerian women sit on the dock at Texaco and threaten to remove their clothing from around themselves everything breaks She taps the deck the further we get from heartache the more we can love the ghost of it recalling the decree of separation that left her a Toyota...

Monday Potes: more 3:15ness

More middle-of-the-night workings from this year’s 3:15 Experiment Aug 3, 2010 Vancouver, BC measuring the good people of the universe their birth    their celestial footprint when she left she became star dust arriving to see the aftershock travelling unladen     as a dying wish granted we sped past the farmlands what’s left of them in the urban creep fresh blueberries blocks from the highway the super highway the burning desire sun stroke us down     past the islands ferry hopping                        past the passengers en route from their holiday get away     gotten     the stars      we too become star dust     memories it is the only thing to become when all is said and done make me a shooting star spotted by farmers across the galaxy looking up...