3:15 AM – August 8, 2009

I decided to share this 3:15 Experiment poem not because its one of my favourites or for its fine literary quality, but because it is such 3:15 language… that and I don’t remember writing it! I remember writing, I recall my hand moving by some force, but I don’t recall any of these words (and some I’ve had to interpret as they were illegible), where they came from, or to what they were referring – other than the fact that my husband went bike-camping on Mayne Island and saw views of islands. This is something that continually fascinates me about the experiment, that I could actually physically write, but not be conscious while doing it. August, 8, 2009 Vancouver, BC I have frozen in this finite heat.  the islands, the islands have...

Dropped Pages: solar strings

This was a poem dropped from Her Red Book. I still might include it in another book. solar strings dust is beautiful it floats in the stratosphere above the cumulonimbus and diffuses the waves making the sky blue azuring the eyes of the nomadic poet who learns the names of constellations like pop songs singing them in her head without sound with only light electromagnetic rays that bounce around the nape of her heart because in the middle world there is a such thing as sunshine Jump on The Monday Night Poetry Train The words “middle world” did not appear in the original poem. I borrowed them after hearing this wonderful post on TED. If you have 20 minutes to spare, this will curl your brain: Richard Dawkins Speaks on our Queer...

Dropped Pages: On the Night She Signed up for French Lessons

This is an odd little poem that was dropped from Her Red Book. (I’m not sure how the title relates… I think I literally signed up for French Lessons that evening.) ~ ~ ~ On the Night She Signed up for French Lessons The heat getting to her she was hallucinating one postcard from Gualala and she’s got the Pulitzer Prize Never mind the extra weight since she’s turned to chocolate cigarettes from Holland putting back everything she’s ever stolen a glance a minute or two in the executive chair with her eyes closed Funny thing was every time she stepped out of the kitchen she was startled by a man sitting at the diningroom table turns out it was only her raincoat and a potted cactus She sees familiar names in NY magazines and thinks I’ve got to get...

Dropped Pages: On the Night of the Flood of Ghosts

Dropped Pages is a series of poems that were originally dropped from my books and chapbooks. I have reclaimed them here. Dropped from Her Red Book On the Night of the Flood of Ghosts 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 she says     the further we get from the heartache the more we can love the ghost of it recalling the decree of separation that left her the Toyota Corolla darkroom equipment piano and one cat named Quincy They revisit old loves who now have new loves...

Dropped Pages: On the Night of the Angelic Ellipse

Dropped Pages is a series of poems that were originally dropped from my books and chapbooks. I have reclaimed them here. Dropped from Her Red Book On the Night of the Angelic Ellipse She confuses her back porch for something wayward circles the peeling paint and rusty cans like wrinkles in a plan The white of her new uniform makes her smile while looking into classmates eyes opening their chests fire escapes overcomes their beautiful round faces The Korean instructor places his hand over her heart and when he moves away     she still feels presence     whispering in a halo She swears there are angels in the room when the lights are down    eyes closed she senses     a pressure from across the room and a voice counts to ten… At home in post-yoga trance a friend...