poetry locketbooks for Hex Presse

the poem dress and the letter tree

In the dream last night there were many clothes and many dirty clothes. At one point, sequestered in what was my own little attic room in a massive house belonging to my parents, I had to write a poem a day, but I did not have paper and so I had to write these poems on a dress. The dress was a thick blue cotton (almost linen) and I was writing with a blue ball point pen, and so I had to press hard to make the ink flow onto the fabric. I was in a hurry and when the words were not very dark, I thought, "oh, I will be able to read them later, but they will not be what I think they are in this moment," and then I lamented that I am often lazy and rushed if an idea comes to me when I am in the midst of some other activity (or falling asleep) and I imagine (lazily) that I will remember what I was thinking and nothing will be lost. But it always is.

The other part of the dream was that it was before my sister's wedding. Although my sister's wedding was over a month ago, I dream about it often. In the dreams I do not know what to wear or my dress is dirty or there is a second wedding and I can't wear the same dress twice. There is often a closet filled with clothes that no longer fit or are not really appropriate for the occasion. Last night, I was busy unloading a car before the before-the-wedding party. E was there (her wedding is soon) and A and B and C (though they were late). For some reason, even though it wasn't *my* wedding, my mother had asked all my friends to write letters to me. She told them that letters meant more to me than anything else, and so the best thing they could give me would be a letter. My mother had filed all the letters in clear plastic sleeves (page protectors) and strung them in a tree. So the tree by the garage was full of these lovely letters sheathed in plastic and fluttering from their strings.

Reading and Catharsis

Books often make me cry. This has always been true. When I was a kid, I cried for days after reading Where the Red Fern Grows. I cried after reading Bridge to Terrabithia. I cried after reading The Red Pony. I cried after reading Death Be Not Proud. I cried after reading Flowers for Algernon. And books continue to make me cry. I often read these tear-jerkers in the same way: I read them straight through, without much stopping, often staying up all night. Then I think about the book obsessively for two or three days. Then I go back to "normal." Sometimes, such as when I'm on break during summer vacation, I will read many books that make me cry back-to-back. I do not feel lonely, only quiet, still, like I'm resting. Like I'm taking a big breath before I go under.

other air

today it is like something they call "may gray." May gray is sometimes followed by "june gloom." What happens is the marine layer (cool moist air) comes in off the ocean and sort of sits like thin pillows along the lower hanging part of the sky. It does not rain. The pillows are not really the same color as clouds -- they are "other air" or air from somewhere else. They smell of the sea but not the smell that you smell at the beach (which is really, the smell of the beach -- that is the shore, that is the space where water and land meet) but rather the smell of blue distance that isn't salted and rotted as beach air sometimes is. The channel now is full of whales; I saw some when I went to santa cruz island. I've heard that the "blow" from their blow hole often smells of krill, but their trachea and esophagus are not connected, so how does their breath smell of what they've eaten? is it somehow in their blood?

I retired the April poems. Maybe you'll see them again sometime.

May Day

Today I hit my head on a tree branch because I was chasing a duck. The duck was new and frightened, and when the gate swung open and offered a moment of escape, she bolted. I chased her around the large yard. We made several laps. J was shouting, "grab her neck!", but I was too timid. I am always afraid that I will hurt a bird. Or even if I am not worried about causing injury, I worry about causing distress. It must be frightening to be grabbed swiftly by the neck and then enfolded in a human's arms.

I have been thinking about humaness. Not humanity, but rather the characteristics of a "human." We went to LACMA to see the new contemporary art wing and the "Sightings" exhibit (both of which were really great), and I found myself hyper-aware of expressions of "humaness." It was like a series of rapid-fire disruptions (in a good way), but I was absolutely rattled and raw by the time we made it down to the bottom floor of the Broad where the two Serra sculptures made me feel utterly terrified.

After hitting my head, I thought it best to try and herd the duck back into the enclosure rather than continue trying to catch her. After many more laps around the yard, she tentatively waddled into the grassy, fenced area. J scooped her up, and we both gently parted her wings so we could inspect her back, which was featherless and appeared to be injured. The area was dark with scabs -- a large one in the middle and then a scattering out to the side. What did this? Another bird? A human? J held her while I applied a few drops of colloidal silver to her skin. Then we put her on the grass and it was time for me to go home and shower and ready myself for the next part of my day.

TextStyle

Because I love letters and text and because I like to find letters and text in unusual places or see letters and text used in all sorts of ways, and because I love pop culture and feminism and the sites where these things have strong textual elements, I have started yet another blog. Here are some examples of the types (pun intended) of stuff I like:

Mixed Media textiles by Cathy Cullis (via Poppytalk)















































Sunlight Poem Projector by Jiyeon Song (via Craft)




















ABC button sewing (via The Style Files)
























Book Art by Nicholas Jones (via design*sponge)

Poetry LocketBooks from Hex Presse coming soon

I made this poetry locket for Jessica Smith last fall. And now I am making more for you.
























photo by Jessica Smith

Dictionary Definition of Rape

Dictionary illo of Buttonhole Stitch as one Metaphor for Syntax

Dictionary Definition of Capitalism

In the dream last night I was in an airport with J. We were catching an international flight, and as we wove through the concrete and open air check-in area of the airport, I had trouble pulling my suitcase and juggling my bags. When we got to the gate, I realized I didn't have my passport and J said not to worry about it and that she would get me in. The way in was red carpeted and sort of curved like walking into a large silver snail shell. Just as I was about to enter the silver tunnel, my bag spilled and all of these objects -- tiny things that I'd collected over the years -- scattered onto the floor. I tried to gather them up, but I knew the gates were closing. I kept wondering if I should continue to collect everything or leave some of it behind so I could get on the plane. I didn't have time to sort the objects or to make decisions about what I would keep and what I might throw away, so I kept picking things up and trying to get it all in the bag. J came out of the plane, which was like a large living room with curved couches and red carpet, and said c'mon we are leaving. And so I stood up and to enter and then the silver door closed and through a window I could see J in front of another closed silver door. We were both on the outside. J banged on the door to let us in but nobody heard her. I felt bad; not only had I missed the plane, but I'd caused J to miss it too.

Equinox

sun paths






















map of military spending

Winter Soldier

Five Years

Pro Nails

Basically the best thing since lil' mama's lip gloss

escape

Last night I dreamed that K and I were walking through a garden. It was lovely. When I went outside today, the sun was beaming and there was a sheer cool wind. I noticed the tops of the trees blowing as I drove down the highway. The ocean was etched with whitecaps. At the bird center, all was quiet when I arrived. The dogs were still inside. In the little weathered wood shed, which is sort of like a little bird hospital, there were two grebes. They make a noise that reminds me of the "beep-beep" the roadrunner makes. Also, there was a dead cormorant. Later, J told me that a couple from the university brought it in. They reported that boys -- not little boys, but college students -- were throwing rocks at it.

There are times when I am acutely aware of the potential for violence that young men possess. I live on the edge of Isla Vista, and on Friday nights when I ride my bike back from the beach and through the dusky neighborhood, I can't help but imagine the insides of the houses where all the windows are lined with bottles -- trophies of alcohol consumption. The smell of beer is thick, and in the yards, young boys without shorts catcall the ponytailed joggers and cyclists. I imagine these are the same boys who, at the end of the year, throw their sofas and trash in the ocean. These boys make me feel worried about sexual assault.

The cormorant was green and brown and iridescent. I touched the feathers before I went to the pond. I usually tend to the aviaries first, and today I seeded and watered all four stalls before beginning to wash the area down. I had the hose in my hand when I noticed, on the flagstone bordering the aviaries, four white doves. The door had been blown open by the wind. The aviary holds about twenty birds, so I was relieved that I only had to recover four. Two were easily herded back in, but I had to chase the other two. When I finally caught the last one, she cooed and cooed. I could feel the vibration in her chest -- the coos and the flicker of her heart -- in my hand. It was as though the sudden expanse of the outdoors had frightened her. I stroked her feathers and put her back inside.

Later, after almost all the chores were done, I noticed that the gray and white bunnies had wandered out of their enclosure. Their gate had blown open also. I dropped the fish I was carrying and hurried; an escaped rabbit is difficult to catch. I reached them quickly enough to herd them back into the pen. When I closed the gate, they sniffed it and pawed at the ground beneath it. Last year, one of J's bunnies escaped and became a "wild" bunny, but he still lived in the yard. J still fed him and occasionally we would catch sight of him in the bushes. But then a hawk tried to lift him out of the field adjacent to J's. The hawk dropped the bunny, and when the bunny fell he injured his spine. For two weeks, his neck was twisted and he barely moved. I thought he would have to euthanized. But he recovered. Now he lives in a hutch again, but he hops and nibbles and is safe from hawks.

Last night I dreamed that a new friend gave me a beautiful sweater. It was very colorful and very fuzzy and very warm. I think the point of this dream is to be aware of comfort -- to be aware that even in the midst of loss, there is the miracle that someone will try and will be able to offer comfort.

Fever Break

A yellow beak curving away
from a bright plastic body, orange
and clean, gleaming as a clock's
arms ticking. The twisted sheets
for another day go unwashed.
My skin winking, my lashes
I can feel them against my cheek
and the body's sweet sinking
it remains, chiming as if to press
the point that loss goes on living.
I can't bear to see your things
again, not without you with them.

It isn't a dream but it feels like one. Halfway through the birds it started to rain. A drop here and there. J gets a phone call. My sleeves are wet from cleaning the filter in the pond, a process that requires me to crouch at the slate egde and reach my hand deep into the cold water to withdraw the feathers and leaves that gather in the filter's pores. There are always clumps of feathers, mostly the small feathers from when the birds preen. J says "wait" to the person on the phone and asks if I can go out to the lagoon to fetch an oiled grebe. I say okay. I was going to take an injured seagull to be euthanized, and it is a better errand to try and rescue a live bird. I am handed the phone and given a series of detailed but complicated directions. I try to listen, but in between visualizing the lagoon and the paths and the dunes, my attention scatters to the way rain is beginning to fall more steadily on the red slate rocks of J's patio. Then I leave and drive my car, which for some reason feels impossibly small, to the edge of the beach facing southwest. Because of the curved land, some of the beaches face southish here. I park and make my way with the blue plastic carrier past the shaggy south edge of the beach where the water is whipped white by the rain and wind and there are piles of large sad rocks. I traverse the large dune which is like a forehead and is vaguely ben bulbenesque. I hang onto my hat. The dune is muddy and criss-crossed with tire tracks where the ice plant has been cut away by bikes and hikers. I walk and look over the edge of the cliff where there is no beach, only the slapping surf. The dunes are large, and there are moments where there is nothing but white sky in sight. And then the dune slopes north and west and the green lagoon rises alongside. And then on the other side a thin taper of beach that curls and widens to a sort of half-moon swath of sand cluttered with bits of driftwood -- laurel and cypress and eucalyptus. The little beach is like a pile of sticks, a pile of matches. I am looking as the lady on the phone instructed -- looking amidst the grayish bits of matchstick wood for a long white neck. I am looking and looking for white. There is sea-spray in the air and it smells good. There is also the smell of oil, which is why I must find the grebe. The woman on the phone warned me that there were two dead birds near the live one, but I do not see them. Suddenly, I see a thin strip of white bending up and down almost like it is being blown by the wind but it is moving as a living thing moves. And the thin white strip is the thin white neck of the grebe and then I see the yellow beak and up closer the bright red-orange eyes. I put the blue plastic carrier on the sticks and approach the bird from the back. It's feathered body is like a raft adrift the sticks. I have a towel that I softly toss over its head as it begins to squawk. I gently grab the neck and scoop up the bird and, like always, I am surprised by it's lightness. The bones and feathers and wet. And the sticky oil underneath. I put the bird in the blue plastic carrier. It is only when I shut the gate and lean down to peer into its shadows that I am aware of the warm life inside the carrier, the sheltered quiet of the blue plastic as the waves and winds and sticks and oil shudder. And I feel the familiar relief of discovering that something is still alive. And is safe. And is still alive, still living.

a dream that isn't mine

the dream is my grandmother's. she is sleeping and sleeping and she does not want to wake up. In the dream the radio alarm is going off and she hits the off button repeatedly but the music keeps playing. she wants to stay in bed all day. then she hears a voice that is like her father's and it says: "I___, you have to wake up now." She looks up and there is a man who is her father but he does not look like him. "You have to get up," her father says again, sternly. I___ looks up at him. He is holding two white robes. One is lacy and fancy and one is plain white cotton. "Which robe do you want?" he asks, holding them out to her. I___ looks at both robes and answers, "I'll take the plain one; I don't need that fancy thing," gesturing to the lacy white robe. "Okay," says her father, and he hands her the plain white cotton robe. She takes it just before she wakes up.

When I'm driving, I often mistake things near the side of the road for animals. There is a small hydrant of sorts on Mesa, and as I drive over the little hill towards home, I often mistake it for a small brown rabbit. It looks like a rabbit that has risen from nibbling the grass to stand at attention-- quite still, it's ears alert. And there are bits of black plastic (I think they are from black garbage bags) tangled in the thorns of the curled barbed wire that trims the chain link fence that runs along los carneros. I often mistake these bits of black plastic for crows. The plastic looks like crows that are cawing, tails fanned, necks outstretched.

I often do see animals near the roadside, especially close to home. Sometimes a Great Blue Heron will be right at the side of the road. I assume that it is hunting ground squirrels. And there are often ground squirrels; the field near the parking lot is a virtual city of squirrels. When it rained I worried about them. I wonder if they dig deep deep down or if they vacate the boroughs. I am still wondering about this even thought I've been seeing them again. I often see animals on the walk from the parking lot to the door. Several times I've seen a skunk. I have a fondness for skunks. I think they are beautiful and vulnerable. But I only see skunks at night. During the day, I sometimes see a hawk. And lately the trees are flooded with blackbirds. It seems they are never in numbers fewer than 100.

There are many dried and dead things. Once, I found the the parched body of a frog -- thin and light, wizened. Its folded legs flat, the tiny lobed finger-toes spread fragile and crisp, almost translucent. And today, the dehydrated body of a lizard, no longer than an inch and a half. I thought it was a tangle of dark thread, but it was the stiff wisp of scales and feet and the little curled fingers and tail.

Dim Sum at Delirious Hem

In the dream last night there were several parts. In the first part K and I were in a variety of snowy places. They were collegiate and cobbled and winding and I kept asking "are we in Providence? Charlottesville?" And the two girls we were hurrying to follow kept saying "No!" At one point the city appeared to fold in on its side and then it seemed as though it was Kyle or some other small Texas town frayed on one edge by the interstate. But then we were in a large house -- southern, gothic in its architecture with sprawling rooms and columns and porches. It felt hot, and perhaps wet. And then there was another side -- a part of the house that abutted a mall. It was a large mall, like the one in towson, and there were fluorescent -lit cinder block hallways. There was some confusion in one of the bathrooms off the hallway. I was washing socks so that they would be clean to pack. I asked K if he wanted to trade suitcases. I had books in mine and so did he and we thought to switch because at least then they might be light enough to bring. But it seemed unlikely that everything would fit, and our belongings were scattered and dirty and disorganized.

The next part of the dream was like a flap of cardboard that unfolded from the side of a box -- like a book flap. And in this part that unfolds from the dream on a crease that is like the wall of the house, it again becomes a house that is like my grandparents' house and I was following a friend from high school, D. She was blond and gangly like she was all limbs and bare feet and ankles. I was following her up the stairs that had dark oak banisters and multiple flights and landings. And we were going up up up to the highest little attic corner of the house. It was like a secret wing or turret (reminiscent of the little octagonal room in the victorian doll house with the plastic windows) and it was where D's mother slept. When we reached the top there was carpet and quiet like a room that someone slept in but is empty. There was a crumpled silk nightgown on the floor and the bed was unmade. I was aware that we should not be there and that we might get caught. I watched as D tried to slide into a closet in the corner. I knew it was the attic because of the a-frame roof that hung down and tapered toward the white half-door of the closet that D was opening and sliding into with only her bare legs sticking out. This was as we (I was with at least one other girl, maybe J) took to looking at the shelves -- the stacks of papers and books and boxes. Then D was back in the room (which was lit by skylights) and showing us her mother's diary. Her mother seemed to be some sort of astrologer and and she had logged the locations of all of the planets for each day. There were long columns with numbers and hieroglyphic planetary symbols written darkly (like someone had pressed hard) in pencil. These little rows like runes on a tablet. As I was looking I was like "of course she knows the future." And I thought that if D's mother knew the future, than surely she most know that we were here in this room looking at her things. And so at that moment I became even more afraid of getting caught. I crept behind the (curiously) open bedroom door to hide just as D's mother came into the room. I felt too large in the corner and so it was clear that there was no way for me to hide. Meanwhile, D and the other girl had positioned themselves in the middle of the room where they were nonchalantly looking at magazines. "oh mom," D said, looking up, "we just came up her to look at these." She said as if it were nothing. D went on flipping the pages of the magazine and her mother seemed annoyed but not like D was going to be in trouble. But then I came awkwardly out of hiding, smiling big and hard because I couldn't help it and knowing that my emergence made it clear that we were just pretending -- that we really knew we shouldn't be there. And so it was my hiding that actually exposed us all.

DUSIE 7

In the dream last night my parents' old house was at the beach like a little shack and one end was open and faced the beach as though water could wash in. as thought water had washed in and we had to remove the tidal debris, the dirt and the bits of dried and dead palms. I wanted to show K how we'd arranged it. I thought that she would be impressed with the amount of room. I was also surprised by the amount of room. I am always having dreams in which rooms I do not know about suddenly appear. And when I wake I am disappointed to find that they are gone. It was raining and the power flickered on and off. This house also seemed like my grandparents' house. In my dreams about my grandparents' house there are always neighbors I do not know in the alley.

When we are on the beach, I notice that there are birds whose long necks extend from large round rocks, or perhaps eggs. Perhaps they are like snails who live in their shells. They appear to be eating fish and it is a little grisly, the red flesh and the white crisp bones breaking with a little crunch I can feel in my jaw. I see that one bird is out of the rock/shell/egg, and it is long like a rubber chicken but it is a sea bird, like a heron, but stretchy with long yellow legs, like a rubber chicken.

++++love+++++

aliveness

Yesterday I was thinking about aliveness.
At the bird center, the pelican with the partially amputated wing started bleeding. It was sudden and not sudden.
Earlier, on my way down to the pond, I passed the lifeless body of a grebe. Usually J puts them in the freezer and then they go to animal control or to ornithologists. Many birds arrive at the center already dead, or so starved or sick or injured that they are already beyond recovery. So I have grown accustomed to seeing these dead birds when I am there. I have thought/felt through it. But when a bird is still alive and is in trouble, I find that I rapidly decompensate.
Yesterday, I held this pelican in my arms while J removed its wing wrap. She wanted the wound to dry out. I had to hold the bird more closely than usual; with one hand I held its beak closed and I held its body between my torso and my arm. I was crouching down so I could hold its wing closed against my torso, and in its gray eye I could see my dim reflection. I was uncomfortable contemplating the pelican's consciousness. Even though we were helping the pelican, I did not know how to feel about the fact that we had to overpower the pelican to help it. I don't know why I was thinking about this. Every time we use a tube to feed a weak or starving bird, it is necessary to hold it. It took me awhile to understand how firmly I'd have to hold a bird; something about the feathers -- the way a finger can slip through -- made me worry that the birds were overly delicate. But I've had to use all my strength to hold a seagull's wings closed so it could be hydrated or fed. And I've seen that same seagull fly back to sea after it recovered. So I don't know why I was suddenly uncomfortable holding the pelican, but I could see every detail of its neck feathers and how they changed in color from yellow to white to brown and gray and black (sometimes, from far away, the feathers remind me of newsprint) and could feel its body inhaling and exhaling. After the wing wrap was removed, I let him go and the bird resumed his perch on a bit of drift wood. J went to the shed and I went to fetch a bucket of fish. When I came back, he ate and ate, which is always a good sign. And then I noticed the blood on the rocks under the perch, and saw the blood on the feathers. I was hot and cold and could not stand. I dropped the fish. I sat on a milk crate and gripped the chain link fence so I would not fall off. I knew I had to get J, but it was difficult to stand. I clung to the fence as I moved toward the gate. I felt like my feet were cinder blocks. I wanted the pelican to stay alive. The blood was so bright and red and so alive that I could see just by its color that it was warm. When J and I came back, a group of seagulls were feasting on the fish I'd dropped. J moved the fish and I followed her back into the pen. We had to hold the pelican again so she could re-wrap its wing. I knew that the pelican was okay then, that the bleeding had stopped, but I was shaky and jittery. And I still feel that way today. But not just because of the bird, but also because I am worried about a person I love. I want everything alive to stay alive. I don't care if the world gets crowded or is too full of living things. I just want everything to keep living living living

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