From a series I'm working on:



And from ANOTHER series I'm working on, Called Border Songs:

At the Gate

At the gate, we remove our shoes.
We take off our belts.  We give

short men our keys and our keys
are held in grimy red baskets.

We don't talk; we don't look
at each other. The room is filled

with the smell of diesel fuel
and nervous sweat.  The boat
 
engine rumbles in the distance.
It sounds as if it is arriving; as if

it is leaving. The floor shudders
with the force of it. We hear

splashing, but we cannot see
the water.

As some of you may know, since I've been shouting it from the rooftops, I got a book accepted by Plain View Press.  So of course I've been frantically putting together covers, cause people judge books by their covers, you know.  Please vote for the one you like bestest.

A.



B.



C.

Vote in the comments, or notes, or on the wall.

Didi painted a picture of me!



and I wrote a poem, again. I should show you the first draft -- it's so different, it's amazing. My mind tends to wander and things get weirder and weirder.
It's for a homework assignment for Joanna Furman's class -- a poem in one sentence. I actually did two of these.



At the Second Accident


I leave the engine running, the driver's
side door open, and I don't float --

I sink, the water not as cold
as I imagined, but brown and golden

underneath, filled with specks and slow
moving leaves and things that sparkle

and dart and I hear shouting and I'm
lifted by my ponytail and I'm out

of the water and you have your arms
and a blanket draped around me

and I think we're alone, but flashbulbs
keep going off, and I'm apologizing for

something I can't remember, and
you say, it's alright, that's what
credit cards are for, anyway.

Waiting Room, Mercy Hospital


Visiting hours are about to begin.
We all smell the same -- like vinegar,
coffee and rotten bananas, like sadness
 
held for a long time. The man
in the corner nods over his brown

paperbag. In an hour, a nurse will tell
him again to leave. Along the wall,

a girl on a boy's lap hooks her fingers
through his belt loops, he caresses
 
her ears; they moan and weep about
Markie. A blessing, an old woman
 
in a housecoat says as she opens
the door to the street.  Someone
 
has gotten better or she has given
up. A blessing, she says, as rain
 
slams into the sidewalk. When
the door closes again I can hear
 
myself  breath. Behind me, someone
whispers on their cell, I'll be there,
stop it already.