My book, The Salt Daughter, got reviewed in Altar Magazine. It's kinda a strange review. See for yourself. (You'll have to scroll down.)

From an Appendix of Lesser-Known Saints

Lucinda became a saint because she knew God wanted her
to claw out her own eyes and gorge on grass until she

fainted rather than marry a protestant man, who,
by the way, smelled of worms and never brushed his teeth.

Her miracles after she lost her sight were minor:
a levitation, bells ringing all at once on a Monday morning,

giving her patient father a migraine, and the healing of
goldfish in several pails. She ate the fine sharp grass

until she was too heavy to walk and when the roots were
nibbled into the ground, she asked her brothers to roll

her in a wheelbarrow to the next pasture. As she grew
bigger she flattened and spread out, like pale lava oozing

to form a new island. The townspeople took to wearing
handkerchiefs over their noses when they passed her end

of the field, the effulgence from her bowels was so foul
and rich. The horses crowded against the far fence,

crows gasped in the trees and the indigo swallows that
appeared in the south every spring fell dead in soft

speckled rain about her thighs. Eventually, as Lucinda
had long hoped, the grass diet killed her. She

ascended directly to heaven; her massive calves and
cheeks now light as spun sugar candy.

Her father still sees her in his dreams. She rides a cow,
modestly sitting sideways. She’s slim again but her eyes

are green this time and she says nothing, just smiles
like she’s happy, but a little bored.
-----

Any place I need to cut the "fat"?

Here's a new poem. Surprised? Have at it -- is it boring, blah, etc.?

My Mother Draws a Horse

after the fifth time I beg and maybe
promise to clean my room

she sits at the table with the dusty lace cloth
in the mirrored yellow room used
for strangers and holidays

if I am lucky she will make it a pinto
splashes of white and black
like dark continents fixed
on a moving milky sea

the horse has her ears bent forward
concentrating on what’s just ahead
off the page

it’s always the same horse
the same size of a handprint
nostrils a little too large as if
she’s breathing hard

it’s always the same horse
and she’s always running

when my mother’s done
she bites her pinky the same way,
it’s ugly
I don’t know what I’m doing

and I smooth her hair behind her ear
so short I stand while she sits
and I whisper, it’s pretty, it’s so pretty

I made so many more.

But I'll only show you my favorite two:






The rest are at the store. C'mon! It doesn't cost anything to just look! (unless you believe time is money, and then, well, I guess it's about a nickle)

I took Kristy's lead, and I now have a shop. Take a look and tell me what you think. The descriptions are a little lurid and over the top, but... that's me.

Here it is:


Dead Carnations.

I'm selling all the photos framed; does that seem like a good idea? It does add a lot to the shipping.

I've been busy, with my not-writing poetry. Lots of collaging and photo-ing and stuff.

Here's the evidence:

New poem!

Sorry, work drama has kept me from you.

I was lucky to go to park today and it relieved my spirit.
Pics later. Comments now! I think I should trim this one.

What We Think About the Missing Girl


if her hair had a voice it would sing
low and wordless yet musical

when no one appears to be listening
we refer to her hair
using words like “pelt” and “feral”
and “river”

sometimes when we are talking about the governments
of foreign lands and rebels and the need for change,
supplies and fresh fruit we are actually talking about her hair

and sometimes when we dream about a sweet pale liquid
and wake up in the dark, our lips cracked,
our eyes wet, we are dreaming about her hair

when our president on TV moves his right hand
forcefully and talks in bold, sweeping generalizations,
he is thinking about her hair

before our old men die, when they are staring upwards
and the room dims, their last vision is of her hair
falling slowly towards them, a gold curtain

The party was wonderful and fun and stress-free and I think everyone had a good time! except for the girl I made cry, but I have to keep in practice.

So I was feeling inspired and made ten million collages today and futzed with a few photos.

Have a look:












What do you think?

The Grass Eater

                chewing what she pulled from 

the lawn      insects shickandshickandshick, pause 
in the sticky weeds     she licked the end of her braid      

the milking shed made her faint    smelling bleach and  
cheese and vomit from the wet concrete     the suck 

suck suck of the machines     metal, rubber fingers 
on the cows’ tits    don’t worry, they can’t feel it     

heavy breath, grunt of the animals     her older cousins 
pinched her neck     she cried stop and rubbed the bruise    

drifted through the fallow field to the faucets at the 
screened-in porch, knelt and put her mouth 

on the iron bitter spigot with its hot water      

welts rose on her calves, thighs 
from some tiny thing, biting and persistent

The Prisoner’s Handbook

The special book you keep under the bed,
the one your father doesn’t know about,
the one with the shattered green binding,
faded gilt star, smell of horse hair burning,
the one you might hear breathing at night,
when the business of the house has fallen
to a low hum.

This book describes positions, of course,
and incantations, it has recipes to make
fancy, bitter cookies, directions on décor;
how to brighten a room until it blinds your
mother, until she is left with nothing but
old images on the back of her eyeballs.

Behind the second chapter diagrams shrink
or grow depending on the angle, they are
simple, direct, red and black, they show
a daughter where the shovel with the sharpened,
ancient edge hangs on the back fence,
and how to use it.

The last, final page looks blank but
is embossed, and when
held sideways to your flashlight
lists a hundred different ways
to say goodbye.

I finally wrote a poem! AMAZing!! This was just a warm-up for my Smut reading tomorrow.

Very Soft Porn

As their lips met, she began
to feel a quivering and a tingling
in her hands.

She bent down on her knees
before him, loosened his belt
and grabbed his hands.

He thrust a fist into her red hair
and bent her back over the bed;
in a trice, he had his finger
in her hands.

She slowly kissed her way down
Alice’s belly and after an agonizing
pause, licked her hands.

Bruce gasped, I’ve never done this
before, as the man behind him snickered
and slowly rubbed his hands
to ready himself.

Tricia’s jaw dropped after she opened
the couple’s bedroom door. I’m sorry,
she finally managed, I thought this
was my room. There were, what?
twelve men and women on the bed?
so many hands…
She tried to look away but couldn’t.

____________________

I'm on peeps, finally. Click 25peeps.com and back and forth and help spread the people love, as much as you see fit.

From way too short notice, Inc.:

I’m doing a reading Monday night at SMUT!

I’ll be reading poems so hot they were cut from my book!
And stuff from my chapbook, The Animal Husband!
Come and see why my poetry was accused of getting your teenage daughter pregnant!

(Also, the bar is air-conditioned)

So here’s the details:
8PM, Monday, August 7
Galapagos Bar

Take the L train to Brooklyn, get off at the first stop, Bedford Ave.
Galapagos is a few blocks away.

70 North 6th Street
between Kent and Wythe
Williamsburg, Brooklyn, NY 11211
718 782-5188


In other self-promotion news, Rutgers and Binghamton University have already agreed to stock my book and host a reading or signing. It’s amazing! Like it’s a real book!

Hypothetically, if one were to use a photo for the back of a book, which photo below would one best use?

Vote for your favorite photo. Just comment with the number.

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