I'd like to write something.  Preferably, something worth reading.  
Hm.

To extend an old, tired metaphor:  I  wouldn't call it so much "block" as "the runs" because I'm writing a ton (it's not like I have a whole lot else to do...) but nothing is coming out particularly smooth or particularly good.

Well.  That was a little graphic.

This entry: ( Read more... )

Because of the dying of the old year
we have an excuse to spend this hospice time
with the wind in our faces
and the drunk lady at the bottom of the boat
with her yellow leggings
is singing about a dancing queen.
she says these are always the best kind of nights
and I would have to agree.

And when the fireworks start, it is only
eleven fifty eight, by the ( Read more... )

In the tunnel of hands ( Read more... )

the eyes of my eyes
are for a moment free to you,
who can’t decide quite where to look.
So blushing up to your widow's peak,
you swallow hard, you say
they are grey-blue today.
I say, I think
I know what color my own eyes are.
And so you drop my gaze
to the floor to shatter.

A million pieces
bouncing
like glass, like rain,
like the soundwaves of a
swelling ( Read more... )

Two applications out, all my nails ripped off, and an entire day spent agonizing over cover letters.  I get really punchy when I get writer's block, especially since I've never claimed to be good at all this "technical" writing.  I think that there's a line in my "deleted" pile of paragraphs in which I describe the profession of teaching as " ( Read more... )

and when you showed me brooklyn bridge ( Read more... )

Poetry when taught to a room of rapidly developing, spring-fever experiencing, squirming, silly 10th graders, is much less fun than other kinds of poetry.  Extended metaphors lose their oomph.  Figurative language drips down into a sappy, slimy puddle on the floor.  But I gave some research papers back today, and when one of my guys saw his 80%, ( Read more... )

Our power went out this weekend, so when I pushed open the door on Friday evening, I was happy to see that Lindsy was holding a flashlight.

I don't believe I even own a flashlight, and as I recall, the last one I had in my possession was one of those the squeezy round keychains, and I'm fairly certain that it was covered in a shrinkwrapped image of ( Read more... )

We stand panting, facing the harbor. 
The sailboats pace the dark blue water
it was still early when we said
yes, let’s run this morning
then morning grew hot and pressed its white light around
our arms and backs and mouths
and drained us down to aching, panting
beings, already aware of our extreme
mortality before we even saw the white
stones gleaming ( Read more... )

Well, I got some writing back in the mail today ( Read more... )