art is long, time is short.

why the silence?

poems used to pinch me out of no where. they’d tap me on the spine in the bathroom, press their cold nose on my ear while i was at the grocery store. they’d well up in my mead glass and i’d drink them until the grin on my face was a glasgow.  they’re miniature autobiographies, fiction, non-fiction, the smallest stories, can fit them into a dollhouse.

but my time is scarce. this isn’t a personal diary (i wouldn’t have time for it, even though that might be amusing), and even if i’ve mentioned personal things here before, i prefer to just be my work as much as possible. ‘when mozart died, he just became music.’ — and so, all my time, tiny as it was, has been devoted to writing my novel. the novel is now finished. which means maybe, just maybe, poetry will stab me again. and again.

of course, this means editing for hundreds of years on that novel, but the accomplishment is done and the time has partially freed up. i’ll also be figuring out where i’d like to send it out to, whether or not to use kindle, as this is not my magnum opus. a first novel never is.

i intend to get to work on another novel soon, as well, but i’m taking this time to let the story take root within me. it’s actually a half-finished novel from years ago (the one that i may be working on next, that is.) and i need to bake longer.

as for my book i’ve just written, it’s about a woman who goes on a road trip to kill the man who’s killed her daughter. as i edit, i’ll post excerpts, perhaps from each chapter.

i’ve got a few drafts saved here on wordpress, full of cobwebs and carcasses and carapaces, of some rants about pictures i’ve found in vintage stores, being a mom, which i suppose could pass for prose, so i may be editing those shortly and posting them here.

i also have piles of half-done poems, sad, i know.

and a list of places seeking content…

so here i go to become music again.

 

like a stone

this blog is for writing poetry and stories.

i’ve been missing from here lately, because i’ve devoted a lot more time to personal endeavors (working on several short stories, self publishing the poetry book i’ve mentioned, and finishing a full-length novel.) i’ve also been depressed. i usually would have never admitted that, but in this place is feels anonymous enough. i’ve also been toiling over a few new poems, but i’m here to acknowledge someone else’s work. someone no longer with us.

although i was struck harder by bowie and cohen this year, especially cohen since his music and his words have had an influence on my own, chris cornell was like a drafty candle in the background of a lot of the musical influences in my youthful memories. his bands occasionally had hits that i’d listen to on repeat. he was a poet, and not many know that.

this song is one of the best songs ever written, obviously not one of the best videos. many people have moved on from it still believing it’s a love song — it’s not. it’s about death. and since he has died it is a privilege to see into his mind even from many years ago. the video is amusingly early 2000’s with the lack of skinny jeans and manicured facial hair, but i hope that he’s finally where he wants to be.

on a cobweb afternoon
   in a room full of emptiness
      by a freeway I confess
           i was lost in the pages
               of a book full of death
                    reading how we’ll die alone
                       and if we’re good, we’ll lay to rest
                             anywhere we want to go