super blood eclipse

my ankles itch
i contemplate the swing

resting on metal
moving under the night

sky lit by the flash
capturing the intention i cast

a smudge of darkness
creeps past

moves to remind us
you are there and i am here

it is silence that amplifies
this insect song

i look to you as you hide your face
wonder from below

what do you see



midnight mind freewriting

Sometimes the night puts you in just the right state of mind with just a touch of hazy warmth hugging your thoughts, and you start playing around with your story and having fun and not caring how far your characters and plot and words stray. They are just going out to play, after all.


Here, I  play around with an alternate somewhat melodramatic first scene of Sela Sunday and Bailey Lawrence together (who some of you will remember from Novel I workshop). I had fun packing and fluffing up my prose feathers and playing with word density.

The night closed in around the moon like a rush of worshipers falling to the healer’s feet, so much darkness bowing to the light. A beat that sounded like running and then gliding and then rolling in mud and then dropping suddenly to the heart-strings and falling like echoes down a deep well, pounded the wind, and moved through Sela’s whole body like a thousand ghosts. Sela walked home from The Quarter-Moon Belly-Flop Café where she worked until night was black felt and had to be pushed and struggled through, until her eyes adjusted and all the houses on the block appeared as squares that had been erased away. A shape emerged on the path, stamping through even the darkest of nights. It was Bailey Lawrence, the leader of the Tuxedo Crew. The slant of his lean a cool buffer against the beaming of his bright glare.


oh insomnia, goodnight. 🙂

and that is how death goes…

There is always more to say when you are speaking about death, and also, nothing to say.–Francesca Lia Block

Some things should be sacred, I know. But should the sacred be secret? If I keep my brother locked in memory, will it be as if he never existed? We breathe life into things with words, by keeping quiet am I slowly erasing him?

My brother died two years ago today.


How do you fit a whole life into that small word. A laugh and a voice and everything he ever said and touched and moved. I guess that is what we do when we grieve, try to stuff a whole person into that small space, then try to stuff ourselves in there with them so no one is left alone, then we have to learn to breath and move in that dense air.

I can smell that day so clearly, big raindrops fell for a few minutes and the wind moved and things fell from the trees and the house was full of sad, broken people and I sat on the porch trying to process what was happening. In some ways I feel like I am still there on that porch.

It’s funny how we give meaning to things when we are trying to feel less alone. As it began to rain that day I remember thinking, Blessed are the dead the rain falls on. I read that somewhere and it came to me and helped. And then a moth flew in the house as I sat on the couch with my family and I thought, That is his spirit. And, sadly, that helped too.

And slowly that day wore on and we wore on and life went on. My mom began listening and chanting healing mantras, and we made the tamales that my brother loved to eat, and told stories, and listened to music so we wouldn’t feel alone and so we wouldn’t feel we left him alone. I felt the urgency Nick describes when Gatsby dies, the urgency to not let him go alone. See, you are not alone.

And that is how death goes and leaves life behind.

And here is the problem with speaking the sacred, it somehow feels untrue.