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Archive for February, 2009

Things you should know:

1.) This is why I Love (with a capital L) Janis Joplin. No, it has nothing at all to do with me and bobby mcgee. In fact, fuck no.

2.) In case you haven’t heard yet – because I’m a first class masochist, I’ve started up a new online poetry journal called Slant. We specialize in dysfunction. The sexy Mary Biddinger graces our inaugural issue. I invite you to read our guidelines and send in something extremely dysfunctional.

3.) Note to self: do not launch a new poetry journal whilst under the influence of many milligrams of xanax. er, uh, or. Thanks, B.C., you’re a doll.

4.) I wish you all a happy weekend. Hubby treated Lina and me to pedicures. My toe-nails are humbly purple. weeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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Pentecost
for myself

Rosebud Morales, my friend,
before you deserted,
you’d say anyone can kill an Indian
and forget it the same instant,
that it will happen to me, Emiliano Zapata.
But my men want more corn for tortillas,
more pigs, more chickens, more chilis
and land.
If I haven’t got a gun or a knife,
I’ll fight with a pitchfork or a hoe,
to take them from the bosses,
those high-flying birds,
with the pomade glistening on their hair,
as they promenade into their coffins.
And if I’m killed, if we’re all killed right now,
we’ll go on, the true Annunciation.

Rosebud, how beautiful this day is.
I’m riding to meet Guajardo.
He’ll fight with me now,
against Carranza.
When I get to the hacienda, it’s quiet.
Not many soldiers,
a sorrel horse, its reins held
by a woman in a thin, white American dress
and Guajardo standing on a balcony.

I get off my horse and start up the steps.
My legs burn, my chest,
my jaw, my head.
There’s a hill in front of me;
it’s slippery, I have to use my hands to climb it.
At the top, it’s raining fire and blood
on rows and rows of black corn.
Machetes are scattered everywhere.
I grab one and start cutting the stalks.
when they hit the ground,
they turn into men.
I yell at them.
You’re damned in the cradle,
in the grave, even in Heaven.
Dying doesn’t end anything.
Get up. Swing those machetes.
You can’t steal a man’s glory
without a goddamned fight.
Boys, take the land, take it; it’s yours.
If you suffer in the grave,
you can kill from it.

AI, from Killing Floor.

_____________________________________________________________


And they blame it on Marilyn (on Marilyn).. and the heroin
Where were the parents at? And look where it’s at – Middle America,
now
it’s a tragedy,
now it’s so sad to see, an upper class city
having this happening.

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Protected: in which rachel gets

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Goodness

A few things:

Adam Deutsch is taking submissions right now for a mini-chapbook. Check out his blog for details as the project sounds really interesting.

I received word last week that I’ll have three poems in the forthcoming issue of Hobble Creek Review. I have one poem remaining that has not been published or been accepted for publication that will be included in my next chapbook manuscript.  This poem is currently out at two journals – journals I would love to see accept the piece, so cross your fingers for me, please!

I need to start writing some new poems. I’m determined to not focus wholey on my dysfunctional family or my dysfunctional mind when writing these new poems. I’m thinking something seriously different. SPB always has some good ideas and I need to stop procastinating and finish collaborating with him.  As soon as I’m done putting out the last of the Tilt Press chapbooks for this year I’m going to get on the grind.

What else? nothing, really.

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yay, yay, yay!!!!!

I finally have a “go” on the cover art for Inside Bone There’s Always Marrow:

The painting is called White Birds and The Wishing Tree by Luiza Vizoli

white-birds-and-the-wishing-tree

I’m thrilled !!!!!!

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Friday Poem

Recovering the Body

we found her along the edge of town,
skirting the sands,
five miles from anywhere,
a pale candle melting in a noon sun

she was sundry, impossibly bland,
a not-quite blonde
who passed through
lurking about, looking for trouble,
for something she tossed out the window
of a car, traveling fast through gravel
through the past,

past a navel
panties bloomed a poppy red,
face shamed the same tone, face

downward toward the pool,
a mired thing, warmly leaking
telltale images of yesterday:
the topdown drive of carefree brunettes,
a stern face on a wall at home
tiny beads bound to a box,
pushed to the back of the drawer
all forgotten with the first blow

the last sound of no

– Nicole Cartwright Denison
this poem first appeared in Wicked Alice and is included in Nicole’s chapbook – Recovering the Body, Dancing Girl Press.

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