The Dining Hall is death.
guillotine the sun.
and weeks of self-inflated calculus
compress our own spines.
lolls over our glass eyes.
Tears of ancient seniors
fill the salt shakers. Our deep sighs
threaten to spill ghosts
all over the table.
I need an editor
who will look at my work and be like:
They’ll push me until my work is like
But they’ll see it…
So I’ll always strive for my work to be
Just so, one day, they’ll be like
To state the obvious, I’ve been gone for awhile.
Right now, I’m working on some new performance poems! Yes. I am returning to the stage by way of slam.
Next week I’ll answer a question about sound in poetry.
Right now and into the future, I’m working on my poems. (Maybe you’ll see some of them here… :P)
Katerina Stoykova-Klemer: An Hour After
that repulsive growth, burnt by scarlet
medicines, finally fell off my face,
I met my future
ex-husband, and he decided
I was marvelous.
He said I do,
I said I do,
and so we did,
until a wart sprang
from his nose and grew as big
as an extra face,
grew as big
as an extra lung,
grew as big
as a Cadillac and grew much
bigger than us,
until the wart was all
I could see.
And he couldn’t
see at all.
It’s Independence Day! and I found myself more cynical than natural. So here’s my reflection of that (which happens to be in the Epigram form I mentioned here):
Andrew Jackson reviews his map.
A cockroach limps, across the U.S., dragging its black ooze behind
like tears. Its wings twitch.
He skewers it with a pen
somewhere over Oklahoma. Its brown-yellow
stomach spreads over the parchment.
Impaled on the table, the bug bleeds forty-two braids of blood.
Its feet curl like burning moccasins.