this is all your fault
Poetry and the literary culture I'm growing in a milk carton
Friday, September 26, 2008
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My First Death: The High Window White moths rise like steam: dawn bright as a headache and I'm still breathing in a birdcage of gristle,...
Sunday, September 21, 2008
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Every Child, a Happy Child Dawn, bright as a needle in the eye. From the corner, he asks me about the cats in the rocking chair. He asks me ...
Saturday, September 13, 2008
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David Foster Wallace killed himself. I can't even.... I remember seeing him read when I first moved to NYC at Dixon Place. I remember ...
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Monday, September 08, 2008
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I just want to make you aware of two poetry readings this week that should be fabulous and also, what a coincidence, that I am in! Nuclear P...
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