Mysteries of the Asylum

our home suffers from a lack of flowers though 
houseplants spring from the dank 
corners of the living room     grow large 
waxy leaves in the shape of boats or
hands  and the view is astounding in those
rooms made of windows    sometimes  when 
.
we argue about  for example  the car or
my virginity  the sky  suddenly opens
us up with its humming red molecules
of oxygen  purple clouds and gold make-believe 
hills until we forget our words  just shake 
our heads and leave through opposing 
.
doors   it is damp and oppressive with light   none 
of my crayon horse portraits stay taped 
to the kitchen wall    by morning  they have slid 
down to the tile floor and curled up like dying 
slugs            when it rains the roof
.
thrums like a hollow shoe box    no one ever
brings home yellow roses to pause 
in a blue vase       sometimes we sit outside on the hill
above the house (where we buried our pets) and chew
grass and sometimes we hit each other on the head
and wander into the forest          sometimes we kiss
.
and make up but still no flowers   no one sleeps 
much we worry we will miss something important  
one Sunday    a small mountain lion leaps 
onto our roof    we call  all our friends and 
whisper      by Christmas he is
 .
gone but sometimes we see tracks 
in the vegetable garden next
to the stunted squash 

Come to the Seminar I put together. It's great! Spirit Fingers are great!

Interested in Getting Published?

Come to the Women's Studio Center tonight (9/23) at 7:15 to learn all about it.


GETTING PUBLISHED

How do you approach a publisher?
What should a cover letter look like?
What makes your work stand out and catch
the eye of a publisher or agent? This evening
seminar will address that and more.

Shelly Reed, Presenter

Shelly Reed is the editor of Spire Magazine as well as the Executive Director of Spire Literary Organization for Disadvantaged Youth. She has run numerous poetry and fiction contests.


Fee: $15.00 General/$10.00 Women's Studio Center members

Address:
Women's Studio Center
21-25 44 Avenue
Long Island City, NY

Take the 7 train to the 45 Road Station, three stops into Queens from Manhattan.

Questions? Call 718-361-5649 or go to www.womenstudiocenter.org

I got this notice today from publisher who had expressed some interest in a book length project:

Some snappy writing here, but this is rather rough for us. We deal with tough subjects often but they're generally attached to issues, this is personal, sexual, and rough -- not our interest.


And, in other news, Robots!

Danger, Will Robinson

few people know
 I'm a robot

that when I snag my skin
on the hinge of a closing door
I bleed something black and thick
not blood    exactly

that if you flip the rusty clasp
under my arm   you'll find
a pile of TVs all on and blinking
  under my ribs 

all tuned to the mysterious hunched apple
of your mouth   your skin the brown
of something feral and quick under the ground

that if you lift the hair away from my nape
with the back of your hand
you'll see a small oil slick

and it's like a rainbow    twisted
   moving  

Wow. I have the greatest poets reading this blog. I'm so lucky!

Okay, whoever wants to read the mss. to send a blurb, send your email to inktastesbitter@yahoo.com and I will email you the pdf file.

The mints will come with the hard copy when that is published. Virtual mints are not so tasty.

Rebecca: I loved your book and I want to write a review of it. I'm just trying to find the words.

Addendum:

Some people have asked for more details about the mints. Know this: they are the chalky pastel mints of childhood. They are the mints you grabbed by the handful when you were ten and your parents took you out on that rare restaurant trip to a room full of dark wood, stale smells, and too few windows. They were your reward for keeping quiet when the waiter with the too-large false teeth brought you a diet pepsi instead of a coke. They capped a meal of rich salty foods with always too much garlic. They are shaped like tiny pillows, lined with a chewy strip of minty sugar, and they leave a dust on your palm like the touch of butterfly wings.