tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33949392012-01-31T19:07:21.996-05:00Poetry and the literary culture I'm growing in a milk carton <br><br><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5291/5395995154_cefbd471c4_m.jpg">Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.comBlogger10741100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-38071238813242804262011-10-04T10:49:00.002-04:002011-10-04T10:52:35.303-04:00

Dear writers and others, I'm running a contest! If you're not interested in poetry at all, then just ignore this. The first 3 people who email me with the correct answer will win a free copy of "Echo Park". Kate Durbin said this about the book: "From "pink-spangled bikinis" to "your mother's stolen perfume," Christine Hamm's Echo Park is littered with the strange, sexy detritus of life, gorgeous

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-41315744629387184232011-08-31T11:19:00.001-04:002011-08-31T11:19:26.833-04:00

[gigya width="300" height="200" quality="high" src="http://hosting.gmodules.com/ig/gadgets/file/112581010116074801021/fish.swf?" scale="noscale" salign="tl" ]

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-27286887008873198662011-03-24T20:55:00.001-04:002011-03-24T20:57:46.761-04:00

Because of copyright issues, etc., etc., I am making this a private blog. For the password, please email me at holdingmytongue at yahoo.com.I will make occasional public updates about artwork, publications and readings, etc.The rest of the archives will remain up.

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-76832156902979129192011-03-16T11:24:00.001-04:002011-03-16T11:26:03.507-04:00

Awesome video at We Who Are About to Die, the last half century of nuclear explosions: here.

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-58797745964901488772011-03-15T07:55:00.001-04:002011-03-15T07:57:28.033-04:00

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-48507730244125831082011-03-02T03:22:00.000-05:002011-03-02T03:24:12.165-05:00

Like a PrayerDown on my knees-- MadonnaThen, the letters sticking in your mouth,you tell the used car dealer exactly whatcolor you’re looking for. We hold handsunder the tin awning, the rain buzzinglike a hive on fire. The engine of yourface turns to me, and I ask when youcan choke me again. You put your fingerto my lips, worried that the dealer willhear us. I watch your new tattoo bleedlimp ink,

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-35816857594726447872011-02-28T00:47:00.001-05:002011-02-28T00:50:17.077-05:00

(This is such a long poem; I feel guilty for writing such a long poem, forcing i ton you)July, Then BeforeYour dark straight hair like some kind of expensive silk skin I wanted to stick my fist through. That Neil Diamond song we practiced all year in the 8th grade out on the front lawn. The album playing in your bedroom. Singing it to each other in the bathroom stalls. How you cried under

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-13278572050467592742011-02-25T13:21:00.002-05:002011-02-25T13:24:13.227-05:00

New Shop -- you can buy prints, t-shirts, etc. of my artwork.inexplicable pleasure

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-3022068171906342452011-02-21T21:56:00.000-05:002011-02-21T21:57:42.230-05:00

As if the moon were still ripe for decontaminationIn the sun, he lies on his back and rips the hole larger with his thumb. In the shadows later, he drinks half a warm diet coke. In the mirror, I check my teeth, to see if they're still broken. In the light cast by the bug-zapper, he plays his tapes, swings his daughter right and left, until her wrists bruise and she laughs loudest. In the fields,

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-66453593795699904672011-02-14T11:36:00.003-05:002011-02-14T13:41:22.844-05:00

Finally, another poem. OMG!My Western, IIThe Outlaw Josey Wales. Grace, Idaho. Red-tailed hawks. A black eye on a girl hiding behind the corral. A Lady Takes a Chance. Trip-wires for horses. War paint, eye shadow. A Fistful of Dollars. Cow-boy hats reeking of smoke and spoiled pork. Mule deer. Mud Lake, Idaho. Highways looping over themselves, empty drive-ins. Coyote brush. Broken

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-1343024427261459642011-01-28T08:31:00.001-05:002011-01-28T11:23:13.626-05:00

Pet CowI only see her in summer; in the winter, some man comes, but not often. Short, sharp fur, scar near her shoulder in the shape of California. Black and white and black. Does not hesitate to shit on me when I get near her tail. Eyes like limpid balls of goo or something I could stick my thumbs into. Liquid dotted by vague filaments, possibly parasites. Some man with cold hands, fingers

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-13058160555368823512011-01-27T15:28:00.001-05:002011-01-27T15:29:40.549-05:00

This is an old one I'd thought I'd give you another look at:Disaster PornHe rips the door off the hinges at 4am -- it's not even locked. He stumbles and hits his head on the chair. He lies still, his mouth slightly open. I can smell the piss on his pants -- there's a yellow trail of translucent vomit down one arm. His eyes are so swollen they look like leaking red fruits, as pulpy as plums. He

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-28051108665858458762011-01-21T09:27:00.001-05:002011-01-21T09:30:55.405-05:00

I can't get this to format correctly on blogger -- so you'll just have to click:Radical rewrite of an earlier poem I've been banging around for years: does it work for you? Fawn, Calf, Mare, I dream... clickie.

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-2652014181532122422011-01-14T16:57:00.000-05:002011-01-14T16:58:19.072-05:00

My OverdoseNot like a river. Not like flying. Not a good taste, anywhere. Not dark. Not like a tunnel, not like a train coming out of that tunnel, with me tied across the tracks, me under the wheels. Not like music, playing softly in the distance. Not like the slang, not like anything misspelled or garbled. No small animals at the fringes. Not in the mouth of a large dog. Not like dragging

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-17459205577251398262011-01-07T10:04:00.002-05:002011-01-07T11:08:04.125-05:00

The FutureIn the letterbox up the stairs, she found a letter postmarked from the following week. It was cold and wet along one corner, like it had been sitting in snow. She took it into the kitchen and put it on the table in front of him. I'm still waiting, he said, watching her out of the corner of his eye. She took two mugs out of the cupboard and slid them onto the table. She put the mugs

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-41570319229055086082011-01-01T10:49:00.001-05:002011-01-01T10:50:50.319-05:00

New drawings for sale at the Etsy shop!

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-20316375542815156832010-12-24T22:23:00.002-05:002010-12-28T13:50:02.892-05:00

My Dead Labrador Retriever Visits in the Form of a HostessThen, around 8 that morning, I saw the big woman in our garden. She lay between the mounds of snow in a red cocktail dress, her shoulders exposed, the thin straps of her dress biting into her fat white shoulders. I couldn't see her face; she was lying with her back to the window, using her arm as a pillow. She wore scuffed, high-heeled

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-22916160215827491692010-12-23T19:49:00.004-05:002010-12-23T19:55:17.763-05:00

New Paintings -- one an homage to Nara, obviously.

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-69533304077119367852010-12-21T21:42:00.000-05:002010-12-21T21:43:01.281-05:00

Reunion: 1977In a line of folding chairs, our backs to the soccerfield, our palms twitch and float over the paper-platesin our laps (egg salad, tuna salad, potato salad) to keepthe black flies away. They sting our necks, drawthin scratches of red. As the cousin next to me tries to cram a whole hotdog into his mouth, I watch Aunt Wanda’s feet pacing the lawn in front of us, how the flesh of her

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-83437105445458793892010-12-13T22:24:00.001-05:002010-12-13T22:25:50.714-05:00

InsomniaThen I'm on my knees in the street of our summer, my brother staring from his trike, his lips a pinked oh, blood pooling honey-like from my mouth, the fresh, car-washed cars circling like frightened cats --a scar forming in my throat that will never heal. This is all your fault, I am trying to say. The dalmatian reaches for me with a gull cry, his leash staked to the dying spruce of our

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-28744219480740562572010-12-01T11:29:00.001-05:002010-12-01T11:33:02.671-05:00

My intensely beautiful and brave friend, Cheryl Burke, has started treatment for cancer and manages to be funny about it: read her new blog.

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-45395070212541102982010-11-10T09:00:00.000-05:002010-11-10T09:01:31.834-05:00

I'M ON A PANELthe ART of CAPTIVITY part twoOn view through December 3ARTISTS' PANEL & DISCUSSIONThe diverse and compelling ways in which captivity is expressed in art & literatureWednesday, November 17, 6:30-8 pm46 West 90th StModerator: Professor Leonard Cassuto, Fordham UniversityARTISTSJessica M. Kaufman, Kim Luttrell, Anne Sherwood Pundyk, Elizabeth WeissAUTHORSNovelist Michael A. Eisner, The

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-1203833725839284202010-11-07T14:25:00.000-05:002010-11-07T14:26:08.187-05:00

How One Cat Holds the OtherTongue dipping into an ear, whitepaw fixed over the other's neck.Low growling. Whiskers lifting,repointed. Black back paw tap-ping like an impatient tap-dancerat the door. What serves as anorange elbow, crooked and inthe air. White fur on red, like a fursandwich or a pie made of fur.

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-52218591758742454782010-11-03T12:17:00.002-04:002010-11-03T12:22:09.919-04:00

The Periodic Table of Car Crashesin the heat, the temporary classrooms ping like empty oil drumseveryone's getting their learner's permit this yearhow to doodle a black stallion using three different pens:movies of people crashing and slides of what happens when people crashthis is called "distracted driving" what a lightbulb feels like when it touches your wristthe sounds the starving stray

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-19626799211234158442010-10-30T14:30:00.001-04:002010-10-30T14:31:22.646-04:00

Hotel #7Are you high? you whispered. The pillows hummed like sweet pools of lit amethysts, the sheets as smooth as a girl's long, long back. You worried about cameras hidden in the walls. I worried that our neighbors' mumbling had a pulse, a morse-like code. Vending machines rang robotically, unsteadily, downstairs. Do you want me to be? Your face edged by the deep blue glow of the pool at

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-34925187370926449962010-10-24T23:52:00.001-04:002010-10-24T23:56:52.696-04:00

The 24 Hour FluWas what she called it for weeks: all night popcorn, all night kitchen-wall scouring, all night swearing and weeping with her hand over the stove's red ringlets.And then little blue pills with sugar and coffee to help my headache. We traded lipsticks in hotel parking lots, me in the front seat, freezing in blue pajamas. Look what you've done to your daughter, she was always

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-22144394474121508472010-10-20T13:19:00.003-04:002010-10-23T09:59:09.722-04:00

The Lost Wax MethodI know about your fall,the time in the hospital. I know about 1983.When the sun stuck its hooksinto the backs of your hands.When every gesture pushedthrough a rubble of dead birds and someone else's bricks.This is too hard to read, so let's put it inside our mouths and suck. Allthis 7-11 cake, and we're still hungry. I want to buy you something, after all you lost for me. A

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-21657760085120240572010-10-12T09:53:00.001-04:002010-10-12T13:39:59.320-04:00

Take 23a woman asks, "the horses, which side did they fall on during the quake?" and I tell her it hasn't happened yet, to call back in a minute I'm wearing the same blouse as the girl on TV, the same tiny brown flowers that flow up the neck,the same plastic, pearlized buttons, and in this dream, you're taking it off me, button by button, until something like

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-35364329336972579052010-10-06T09:44:00.000-04:002010-10-06T09:46:02.711-04:00

PingPong East Coast Launch Party at Happy EndingThe Henry Miller Library announces the annual publication of PingPong, a journal of the arts. Serving up the best from the global literary and art scene by publishing a vibrant group of poets, writers, artists, and photographers, this issue continues PingPong’s commitment to the raw aesthetics set forth by Henry Miller and Anais Nin.PingPong is

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-13421029768415277542010-10-01T11:12:00.002-04:002010-10-01T11:20:25.211-04:00

Hotel #10Aqua cinderblock, channel stuck to the preacher's face, the curling message along the bottom promising you an answer to your call. The air conditioner, humming, drippinglike a sick bulldog. The mattressdipping in the center like a punched-in stomach. How the doorknob breaks after the second day, so one of us has to stay awake all the time. The last coke from the vending machine, ticking

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-40658658501272298712010-09-18T14:50:00.001-04:002010-10-01T16:50:44.700-04:00

Hotel #8Pink, the smell of old men's hair.Something hidden ticks in our bath-room; the green drapes witherlike petals and light creeps in.Ice coats the flags, the lost mittensin the gutters. Sometimes you let metake your cock in my mouth, but youwon't teach me the words I need tobuy a cup of tea. Your joints stickwith the cold, so the restaurant is too far to walk .You wait for the busin the

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-79189076835426812432010-09-12T22:25:00.000-04:002010-09-12T22:26:11.853-04:00

Tourist Visa, IIwe can’t pronounce the names of the ruins/ you slip on the steep stones/ I lose a flip flop in the mud/ our t-shirts stick to our bellies/ the hotel bench swells and oozes/ you lose money in your hand/ rain at 4/I can't count in this language/ so many cameras in these ruins/ in the shade of the rock you swim and I watch for jellyfish/ fire ants in our sheets/the sockets spark and

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-90524684248239497052010-09-02T05:17:00.001-04:002010-09-02T05:17:56.691-04:00

I'm at Everyday Genius today!http://www.everyday-genius.com/2010/09/christine-hamm.html

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-90435376529476425112010-08-25T14:43:00.005-04:002010-08-25T19:00:42.826-04:00

The RivalMy mother got a flying baby. She already had four cats and two dogs. When I came in on Saturday, the baby was tied to a banister, flying up around the ceiling. Mom, you need to keep that ceiling fan off, I said. The baby smelled funny, its diaper was sagging and its skin looked loose. It had orange and yellow hair all over its hands. A baby is a lot of responsibility, Mom, I said.

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-28073783558224883642010-08-12T20:36:00.002-04:002010-08-12T20:38:54.841-04:00

CrushSmashed ice in a waxed paper cup.One translucent pea hen flowing afteranother, or an orange shadow shifting on the baseboard. Orangemy safeword. Orange I said Orange when we swam. My breath's unreliable that way. Why is it orange? he said. I wanted to try something new. Do you like it? I said. Curtains drawn, the day humming outside like a fire engine on pause. Orange ya glad to see me?

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-14503604904228691962010-07-29T11:09:00.003-04:002010-07-29T12:27:46.637-04:00

from The Handmade Castle Section 1. (instead of breaking their hands, one after the other, while someone tries to reach for the phone)Tonight you make up a father, an ordinary, sad one, smarter than anyone realizes, who reads the history of the Quarter Horse over and over again, making pencil marks in the margins, who drives his 80's Toyota slower now, since his left eye got so bad; tonight it is

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-37173037005712548952010-07-22T10:49:00.003-04:002010-07-22T11:32:05.862-04:00

Saints & Cannibals is back on sale! Sorry for the SNAFUFirst DraftHow to Make a Person-Bombafter Gloria FuertesStart in the backseat.Add shoes with laces that trail.And a broken knuckle.A ring that keeps sliding off,bracelets that catch on the furniture.A stick of butter.A stick of butter.A cup of hot, black pepper.Put it in the crosswalk.Put it in the doorwayof the boarded up hotel.Send it

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-54394720052573761842010-07-07T23:34:00.001-04:002010-07-07T23:34:21.735-04:00

Are You Going to Eat This? after Lynn EmmanuelStart with a dog. This dog. This dog wanting out of this dream. Then I see my eyes, blinded by windows, a bobbywith a talking gun, more butter and more, smearing the box, the bureau.Stuffing her mouth, a servant, still. We tell the dream. We tell the maids and waitresses, we don their black aprons. I want to ask the stove, the glaring succotash,

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-22869410506829584982010-06-26T23:44:00.003-04:002010-06-26T23:46:21.693-04:00

Fantastic review of Saints & Cannibals today on The Feminist Review. She compares me to Lorde and Forche -- me! This is going to make my month.

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-63979753137218674362010-06-22T14:53:00.000-04:002010-06-22T14:54:42.855-04:00

SilverThe sandals I stole from Kmart. The lighter you used on the ivy,the dumpster. The padlock on the refrigerator after Sara's fight with Mom. The polish Sara dabbed on her nails, and Mom's seashells in the top shelf basket. The pit bull's collar as he dove against his chain, little grunts, trying to get at us, our arms full of oranges. Your hair, after she sprayed it with sparkles for the

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-20192092282422309312010-06-14T13:38:00.000-04:002010-06-14T13:39:07.386-04:00

Like a Fat Gold WatchALL SUBMISSIONS ARE DUE JULY 15TH!!submit to ceehamm@gmail.comLike a Fat Gold Watch: I am collecting an anthology of poems and more that celebrate Sylvia Plath’s life and work, but do not fetishize her suicide and death. Please submit your poems about Sylvia Plath for an anthology to come out in Fall of 2011. All poems must be either a response to her work, or her life, with

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-47708528095630261402010-06-03T16:59:00.003-04:002010-06-03T22:12:18.331-04:00

Ramona the FallenCrooked, rectangular eyes. The stench of the horses we knit ourselves to. Her ears clotted with gold/diamond circles she tugged until her scabs opened their mouths. Hurling down her shining silver pony, she broke the fence with her collar-bone -- the poles banging together with a sound like wooden bells. Faint stars where she went into herself with an exacto knife, a stapler: I

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-87072904329272334162010-05-30T21:52:00.001-04:002010-05-30T21:52:20.351-04:00

Tuesday, ChicoThe hotel swimming pool,full of floppy children and chemical stink. The flydying on my nightstand.A quarter and magic fingersfor two minutes. Orangediamond, black diamond,orange -- the bedspread reeksof bleach and violets. I needto understand some things,you said, some things involvingher. This time, I left. July is listless and self-conscious;I'm avoiding the beach, my bathing

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-61852135805806889302010-05-29T13:13:00.002-04:002010-05-29T13:19:03.035-04:00

I'm trying out some new images for the cover of my next book, "Echo Park". Here's a close up and then the big picture. I'm trying for a wallpaper motif.Big: The Big Picture:

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-16569931049809349232010-05-25T02:15:00.000-04:002010-05-25T02:16:09.723-04:00

Lines Excised from the 5th Poem About Your DeathThen you said, I'm not really your mother. How, when you took off your shirt, I saw your black-winged bra cupping your freckled breasts. The Wednesday when you told me you couldn't answer my call last night because you had someone's cock in your mouth. The script you wrote for me for valium, so you could get some yourself. The part where you kept

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-1396209183535902492010-05-18T12:26:00.000-04:002010-05-18T12:34:50.669-04:00

Dream DogBarking bangs from the corners of the garage. Drool pools in your lap. Face the size of the horizon, scummed puddle eyes, muzzle and grey gums. Black hide, burned at the elbows and chin to pink. Your snot-smeared hands, struggling with the rope. Paws scrabbling like falling pigeons. The reek of his tongue; he has been eating something dead from the trunk. Out-of-tune horns, cellos, from

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-9246571668324389442010-05-10T12:23:00.001-04:002010-05-10T12:23:41.581-04:00

Beaver, Cat, Clam Think of it as a small tender beast. With large deformed paws. With a razor- wire necklace. Think of it as your mother once she's drunk, when she has forgotten her second language and can only swear at you in Russian. Think of it as a cop on a Segueway, as a cop on a Segueway in shorts. Think of it as an attractive sky, blasting in your face. With the moon, sun and stars all

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-65557094462900278432010-05-07T10:33:00.001-04:002010-05-07T10:34:48.478-04:00

Rewrite of old poemBirds Clearly Don't Understand Glassyou stood near the winterswimming pool, like a littlemother, but with fur,a lightweight skeleton,hollow bones, the age-old bellon the collar,your large palmsspread with shelled peanuts,sunflower seeds, red millet,white millet

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-52875070515588034392010-04-30T09:06:00.001-04:002010-04-30T09:10:56.763-04:00

After the Accidentseatbelts hanging us upside/downcan’t feel my right wriststill a little stoned on teenaged sexand the fight about the cupholdera branch nods through the windowshield,the car ticking like a wind-up toy slowing/downshattered safe-tee light in my hair,I unfasten and fall to the ceilingcrimson and clover/over and over/crimson andstill on the radio(you crawl as if you had lost

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-45390461173263361052010-04-23T07:32:00.002-04:002010-04-23T07:34:41.118-04:00

Great series of portraits of the people sitting opposite of Marina Abramovic. Some of the faces recur, some of them weep. Some people can only stand it for a few minutes.

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-28415336518509531852010-04-22T12:57:00.000-04:002010-04-22T12:58:02.324-04:00

Fragments IIHow she learned to ride the subway by herself.How she wouldn't tell anyone but him how she lost her thumb.How he checked the websites for new girls each night when he thought she was sleeping.How her ankle wouldn't heal. How she walked as if she almost shook apart with each step.How the lenses in her glasses were as thick as a finger.How she celebrated her 18th birthday.How the cake

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-75456562908152717132010-04-17T14:38:00.001-04:002010-04-17T14:38:29.606-04:00

EquinoxThe street buckles under her feet. Her purse swings like the sun on fast-forward. The glitterof dimes in the gutter, on her knees.The German shepherd charging, restrained. Apologies whispered, shouted. Restrained twice. Hot breath builds its own atmosphere on her cheek. A high tinsound like an angry cook at the sink: clatter, clatter. Her hands at the sides of her head, in her

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-7404621574639540882010-04-16T11:47:00.001-04:002010-04-16T11:48:40.762-04:00

I started a new art blog. Haven't had time to finish any poems, tho' I started quite a few. AWP was fun, but not a life-changing event.

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-55029512695910186182010-04-06T23:47:00.001-04:002010-04-06T23:47:54.835-04:00

The First SymptomsNo, I'm the monster, he says. Eyes behind round tortoiseshell glassesshift left, then up, redden. But broccoli, she answers, I like broccoli on my toast. Her purple lips exactly match her fingernails.He asks about their child, part pony, part cat. The cop looms over them, tall as a rosebush;they try to ignore him. Her husband loosens his tie, its bathingbeauties waving from the

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-46666094825808573072010-04-05T18:50:00.002-04:002010-04-05T18:51:15.607-04:00

Me and my tattoo are up at Tattoos Day. As part of national poetry month.

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-82431182071413792812010-04-03T22:08:00.001-04:002010-04-03T22:08:51.359-04:00

I just got into New England College's Low Res MFA program! Who-000-eee!

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-2918755658898020382010-03-30T23:37:00.002-04:002010-03-31T09:30:16.100-04:00

A poem in two parts:Mousy BlondeMy cat drags a movie star onto my feet while I'm sleeping. Under the covers, on top of my feet! The movie star is wet and still. My first thought, octopus under my toes, then I wake up shrieking. The cat shrieks in response and plummets into a wall. When I turn on the lights, I can't see the movie star; she's under the covers. So I make that quick ugh, ugh,

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-54580521895743320582010-03-26T14:42:00.001-04:002010-03-26T14:54:04.236-04:00

Hey y'all, I'm thinking of starting a link list of places where you can send your poetry books for review, kind of like here at New Pages, and here. I think I'll probably post it on word press, because you can't start new pages here on blogspot? At least I haven't figured out a way. What do you think?

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-15652526490050507812010-03-25T23:35:00.001-04:002010-03-25T23:35:31.231-04:00

Genesis 1a barefoot girl leads a speckled pony into her room, the pony looks overhis shoulder, constipated or sadshe slowly spreads lotion over her knuckles, trying to get out the blisters, the bite marks, listening to women breathe on the other side of the wallshe pretends not to notice his scars, the way his hair catches in his wine glass, the way his mouth can't close on one sideshe offers him

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-17079600916342424632010-03-23T13:37:00.003-04:002010-03-23T13:42:06.050-04:00

THE BOOK HAS ARRIVED!I'm looking for reviewers -- if you have a journal/website/etc. where you regularly write reviews, please let me know, and I may be able to send you a free copy in exchange for a review.Here's the whole flyer of info for the book; spread it around!BUY IT HERE.DescriptionA fierce book of poetry based on historical and mythical saints and cannibals, including Saint Claire and

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-63290935086506543592010-03-19T11:23:00.000-04:002010-03-19T11:25:11.205-04:00

Pathogen ISkinned rabbit on a pile of tiresnext to the filling station.Bright bugs around our faces,lit orange by the falling sun.You reach into the wet gearsof your bike, your knuckles huge,bruised the color of soft avocados.What kind of street is this, I ask --you are caught in the bike chain,in loosing and refastening its teeth.Red-faced men in baseball capsdrive their mustard pickup nextto a

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-12097532844776867052010-03-17T12:40:00.005-04:002010-03-19T12:32:15.293-04:00

Pics from my lasting reading at CROWD in Brooklyn:

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-48204907150429401372010-03-15T00:32:00.001-04:002010-03-15T00:34:15.169-04:00

Me, at my last reading:

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-14785043244241034612010-03-12T20:13:00.001-05:002010-03-12T20:13:59.205-05:00

My friend Ellis is doing a workshop...award-winning novelist and Columbia writing professor Ellis Avery presents...HUDSON STREET WRITERS' DOJO!West Village, NYCMonday through Friday, April 1-30, 9-10am$20/session. Pay for four in advance, and the fifth is free.Ellis wrote her first novel, THE TEAHOUSE FIRE (Riverhead 2006) in an hour a day over a period of years. For the month of April only,

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-45445930990588552972010-03-11T08:05:00.000-05:002010-03-11T08:06:49.289-05:00

Picnic GamesA blue blanket. Clouds, the sick yellow light. A dark blond curl by an open mouth. A bottle of beer. A bottle of milk. A bottle of beer, in a row next to her hip. Panties cut high on the thigh; skirt lifted over her head with a stick while she drowsed. Cicadas, low then loud. Scuffing the mud under the picnic table with our bare toes. Flies settle; Suzy is stung. We hop and stomp,

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-82198689434696156872010-03-09T14:00:00.000-05:002010-03-09T14:01:45.179-05:00

Updated the etsy store.

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-60336877655416886242010-03-07T09:10:00.003-05:002010-03-09T14:25:19.917-05:00

Saints & Cannibals, now available for pre-order: Look!.

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-71759502169093762482010-03-03T08:57:00.003-05:002010-03-03T20:31:19.958-05:00

Me, reading some stuff. Yes, this is kinda old, but I just figured out how to embed a video.Call for submissions below.

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-78081534251275854982010-03-02T10:24:00.001-05:002010-03-02T10:26:16.160-05:00

Call for submissions:I am collecting an anthology of poems and more that celebrate Sylvia Plath's life and work, but do not fetishize her suicide and death. Please submit your poems about Sylvia Plath for an anthology to come out in Fall of 2011. All poems must be either a response to her work, or her life, with one caveat -- they cannot be about death or suicide. Work will be looked at more

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-14862501721902455272010-03-01T19:45:00.003-05:002010-03-01T20:07:54.161-05:00

Why Didn't You Save Me,You Continue to AskJuly, the month of smoke, the month of long dry houses, burning. How to make a bong with a knife and a salt shaker, a knife and a shoelace, a knife and a human hand.You yelled once-- a long, dog-like sound. Something yellow in my peripheral vision. A bruise on your jaw, a new white around the rims of your eyes.Nyquil and orange juice, wine and five

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-13743307173718221772010-02-28T21:40:00.002-05:002010-02-28T21:48:22.615-05:00

I got the final proof copy of Saints & Cannibals! It looks great -- I am so excited.

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-82214293357251378452010-02-15T11:15:00.001-05:002010-02-15T11:16:43.378-05:00

Just discovered For Every Year. Really wonderful way of thinking/writing about the past.

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-34908384037689913032010-02-14T21:51:00.002-05:002011-07-11T11:01:52.836-04:00

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-81499151003826419012010-02-12T13:19:00.001-05:002010-02-12T13:22:38.490-05:00

Artifice Magazine has a great wishlist that doubles as poetry prompts. Try some of them out!

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-54290604031419204112010-02-11T00:00:00.001-05:002010-02-11T00:00:47.824-05:00

Late Burialthe small sound of an old radio, some music, words I don't understand, a nostalgic howl with lots of brass and acoustic guitarThe scene where the car is buried by snow, all the carsare buried in snow, the road just a faint dent the phone ringing, going to voice mail, the phone ringingin someone's jacket pocket, the jacket buried in a pile of jackets at a partythe rip along your cheek,

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-90471349605592183192010-02-10T08:24:00.000-05:002010-02-10T08:25:03.120-05:00

Since you asked, here's the technique I used for that last poem. It was actually the combination of two techniques I learned in Kaminsky's class. One was: make a list of 10 random/strange questions, and then, at another time, without looking at the questions, make ten bizarre/strange answers or statements. Then see if you can match the answers and questions up in any way. The second, pick your

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-24884821501050582102010-02-05T13:15:00.000-05:002010-02-05T13:16:24.466-05:00

Why Are You Constantlyit's hard to see the screen with all these ghosts\the sea anemones make a kissing sound when they let go of your fingersPigeon. Seagull. Pigeon. Robin.arms the color of pickled pigs in a jarthreatening to jump off a window ledge into a tidal poolyour smile constantly erases itselfhair wafts into my eyes, sticks to my lipstickthe wind as your green curtains skim the ceilingis

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-82794690679395241992010-01-28T00:14:00.002-05:002010-01-28T01:01:10.047-05:00

HTML giant has a great post on contemporary "moves" in poetry -- which could also be called tics, cliches, or styles. I'm going to try them all out! I'm doing the negative one (not and not and not) right now!Here's the draft:Not the Blue OneNot the horse entire, not the grippedwithers. Not the ring of shod hooves down the driveway. Not the girth loosening, not the bit hanging to one side.

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-9393381204534312272010-01-25T10:23:00.002-05:002010-01-25T17:00:54.637-05:00

Alex Prager is my new BFF.Also, I have a new domain and webpage, finally: christinehamm.com.

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-25745413880323682892010-01-16T23:28:00.001-05:002010-01-16T23:28:34.682-05:00

Got some new links, down at the bottom. Check 'em.

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-21564050469623895482010-01-13T20:27:00.001-05:002010-01-13T20:27:52.799-05:00

In the Endless Backyard, Part 5A goat race. Your brother hanging onto the pocket of your pink shorts. World's Largest Horse. Endless shrieking, coming near but never arriving. World's smallest dog. Smeared glass boxes, cracked, withbones inside. The hat worn by Jesse James. Shake the hand of the man made of rubber. Two liter cup of orange soda and all the popcorn you can eat. A midget who

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-23777733982625915932010-01-10T00:35:00.001-05:002010-01-10T00:37:14.439-05:00

Teen AngelThat year, everyone had your same name, but spelled it with an "S". Black beauties in baggies at the bottom of your purse.A 28-year-old boyfriend. Your whispers that my bangs made me look retarded. I watched you break the mirror in your locker with your hands, then stare at the tiny blood like it was something new. Drunk in the backseat of my car on the way to a party. A handful of

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-2036472244017940152010-01-05T22:05:00.003-05:002010-01-05T22:12:48.604-05:00

I've been thinking it's Monday all day today. My head is in a fine muddle of Modernism. Till I have a poem again, some things to keep you company.1) Fantastic and friendly artist who should probably charge more. Some lovely prints from her just arrived today -- now where to put them!2) Sick little video fits my sick head (warning -- rabbits and idols):pictures and words

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-73225852427547630362009-12-30T00:46:00.001-05:002009-12-30T10:12:56.258-05:00

Hospital 5My brother's in isolation again; when we kiss the tattoo under his eye grows another star. 3 milligrams: pink and yellow rabbits in red gilded cups. Glittering ladders emerge from the head of the woman behind the glass nurses' station. My brother chews his thumbnailtill it bleeds, then pulls my ear and whispers. Glass cases of pigs under their arms, the interns stalk the narrowhallways

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-67602407479517388932009-12-24T08:19:00.001-05:002009-12-24T08:19:56.263-05:00

Summer Horsesthrough the screen door the crunch of gravel as pick-ups roll into the gas station next door,the hum of a lawn mower or electricsaw from some other streetthe parakeet by the window murmurs to himself in the mirror, plucking at a wing, if he picks anymore he'll have nothing leftthe reek of his cage mixes with the sour scent of our pillows,your sparse hair sweat-damp, you pretend to

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-85142042584372763452009-12-01T13:32:00.001-05:002009-12-01T13:32:59.844-05:00

My Westernmy mother forgot the suitcasewith her boots, lost me among her uncles' houses, the farms spread out like fingers, her calls faded in the falling telephone wires and the cows shat and shat and shat in the cinderblock milking shed, the rooms of mechanized vats churning the smell of baby vomitour hands and Osh-Kosh overalls sized exactly the same, we learned how to use a bullwhip on the

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-28023466749790221842009-12-01T10:37:00.002-05:002009-12-01T10:42:20.438-05:00

Got new work published in:The Loch Raven Review andThe Holly Rose Review, where I am in the company of Ivy Alvarez and Dorianne Laux.I also just got a poem accepted by Women's Studies Quarterly. Yay!

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-1013740701817468532009-11-25T00:32:00.001-05:002009-11-25T00:32:28.297-05:00

In the Back Yard, Surrounded by her Laundry the denim shirt hangs to her knees,she belts it or wears it open overa pink dress, the hem scalloped, the ric-rac abundant and torn -- he stood too close, always, suckingthe oxygen away from her faceit's too early yet for glovesher woman's hands in water, sometimes she's washing something, sometimesshe's washing something offabandoned pit bulls clamber

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-81038846190754440322009-11-15T19:26:00.003-05:002009-11-15T22:24:27.990-05:00

A Large Stable of HorsesI can't stop writing without my arm on fire and then milk. I must be a reincarnation of St. Sophia, or was that blood and milk.Her teeth sharp, black, each morning she hands me my peppermint latte at Dunkin Donuts. In another life, she was Kali and I, the daughter she killed for singing or weeping. You send me a postcard of Paris, although you've never been there and

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-70995371296714097762009-11-12T08:31:00.001-05:002009-11-12T08:31:50.775-05:00

But I am Working on my Recoveryyou tell me you're raising your feeyou tell me to stop glaring at the other patients in your waiting roomyou tell me you're just concerned about everyone's emotional safetyyou tell me this is good for meas you leave bruises along my jaw,your grip just a little too tightyou tell me I must separate from my motheryou tell me none of those memories are realyou tell me

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-44749978535601630422009-11-03T00:25:00.001-05:002009-11-03T00:25:59.378-05:00

The UnbornTentative, mucky,very wet, very red,their fingersgrab our danglingearrings in ourdreams of drowning.Wailinglike distant wars,like distant animalambulances, they pawthrough our sock drawers,our stacks of photographs.Sticky, miniature-thumbed,reeking of rose talcand rancid butter,they stain our bed posts,our sheets, our rearviewmirrors. They murmur,murmur in the corner,mouthing button

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-79804876609037683932009-10-25T15:43:00.002-04:002009-10-25T16:00:52.945-04:00

Birds Clearly Don't Understand Glasswe wouldn't admit it, but in your pocket slept three baby grackles and a large blacksnake as you stood near the winter swimming pool, like a little mother, but with fur,a lightweight skeleton, hollow bones, the age-old bell on the collar, your large palms spread with shelled peanuts, sunflower seeds, red millet, white millet

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-19592849722317661512009-10-14T23:52:00.001-04:002009-10-14T23:55:57.088-04:00

My therapist tells me we have to work on "my problem with biting."1) I wish I could tell you the truth about this; my jaw has been wired shut more than once.My boyfriend is bruised and a little embarrassed.My front tooth is loose and it hurts when I drinkmy tea.The sheets are in the dryer already. No one heardanything.I give them names. They recede in the light.I wish I could say I went away,

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-2696669340385010622009-10-09T07:36:00.000-04:002009-10-09T07:37:04.755-04:00

White ShirtsWhile you sleep, I watch a movie. A man bangs his head against a shelf in a library. It's the magazine section: I can almost tell the year of the movie from the magazine titles. I love the image of white shirts hanging on a clothesline, as long as it's not in my backyard.He picks scabs into the backs of his hands, and tapes old pictures of tigers all over his mirror. He ends up

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-47889720209363759092009-10-01T09:09:00.001-04:002009-10-01T09:11:07.735-04:00

NeighborsThe boy two doorsdown likes to bite,too, but his mothermakes him eat soapafter, and so throughthe summer-propped windows we hear their struggles in the bathroom, his shrieks as she grabshis mouth, the slippingas he knocks the brightyellow lozenge from herhand, and then sobsfor hours, a strangledsound like a lawnmowerstuck on a plastic toy.One day there's an ambulancein their driveway,

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-28999346378329349392009-09-23T08:00:00.002-04:002009-09-23T08:07:13.738-04:00

See me perform! Kinda purplish with bad hair. Also, what do I keep doing with my mouth? Roll tape.

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-30574247809041144272009-09-12T11:35:00.001-04:002009-09-12T11:35:42.967-04:00

TenderFour Dos Equis and his voice a plastic radio skipping between station and static, my new friend lays his hand on my shoulder, his arm as heavy as the whole weight of his scarred white body.Our small table smells of moldy towel; he's telling me he likes being beaten, that he's nevertold anyone this, thathe hires a woman to do it.Beyond the restaurant's openwindow, I hear the evening's last

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-55661917378580286922009-08-31T13:51:00.000-04:002009-08-31T13:52:36.236-04:00

Blurred Rose TattooA gold mullet tied backwith a shoestring. Sweepingour fireplace by gettinginside, soot on her exposedbra strap. At the kitchentable with a Sprite, handedwads of fives for New Year'sbecause we forgot about Christmas. Old red Cadillac; parked two blocks away, or takes the bus. Her own set of brushes in a cracked plastic bucket. The smell of bleach and earth from her skin.

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-89483719605976164252009-08-24T10:53:00.001-04:002009-08-24T10:53:57.033-04:00

Big Black DogHead like a gunboat. Blueeyes: stars constantly receding. Breath of rottenPontiacs, half-buried in the backyard. Followsme to the dinner party, insists on my lap. He savages the chicken,the sweet potato. No oneclucks or looks away. The short woman nextto us, with a sound likea flattened sparrow, liftsa chunk of orange something from her hair. Dessert is on his tongue, all over my

Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05718251845657390735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3394939.post-47942283013219248722009-08-22T10:31:00.001-04:002009-08-22T10:31:38.069-04:00

Little Red Ponyand the surgeons stitched youback, black heavy thread and staples,so in the tiny bleached bed youlooked like a girl-sewn doll,your face wrinkling and smoothing in sleep, your eyes making cursive beneath their lids: shoulders, ribs still bruised in boat-shapes from the instruments, where they tied you down & little red pony, little heart galloping, how red their gloves when they

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