Friday, March 20, 2015

New Chapbook

Started in Cambodia, printed in Qatar, assembled in Spain and in casa (the entire family was involved), "Sky not Skying," a Dusie Kollectiv chapbook, dropped in the mail last week. Dig those round stamps. I'll send you a print version, if you so desire. Just send me a message. Otherwise, all comments are welcome.

You can read the e-version here. Listen to me read it to you here.

How sky blended into sea. How sky and sea didn't seem to be different elements. How sky was not sky, sea not sea. How you, me. How free...

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

oop odd

stoop
trod
loop
prod
hoop
shod
scoop
laud
group
mawed
swoop
clawed
bloop
broad
coop
thawed
droop
awed
whoop
flawed
soup
pod 
stoup
sod 
dupe
god 
sloop
shod
poop
odd
supe
nod 

Sunday, February 22, 2015

What to do next...

I'm at the little black desk in our Doha bedroom and Angela is wheezing in her sleep behind me. The wind is blowing dust and such, the floors are all slippery with it, and I'm excessively itchy and scratchy and uncomfortable. A few hours ago, lotion made my arms feel better, and I smell fresher, but my face and eyes are irritated. I'm ready for bed.

I went into the kitchen to look for something to eat, and popped a few SweetTarts Hearts--leftover unwanted Valentine's day candy--for a bit of a sugar rush to keep me going for a little while longer.

It's late and I should be grading papers or writing recommendation letters or lesson plans, but I'm blogging. My shoulder hurts from holding my arm in a strange position in front of the computer, and my wrists feel tight from typing. I hold my head in the palm of my hand, elbow on the table, and think about what to do next...

Monday, January 05, 2015

There's no...

catching up.

More to follow...

Thursday, September 04, 2014

My Lullaby

Laptop a-lap, sitting unglamorously in my Gap pyjama bottoms and sweating on the chestnut-colored suede couch in our humid living room while Angela and Vito sleep, and well after the time I might otherwise logically retire so that I can wake up and be ready to face another day of composition instruction and collegial repartee, something impels me to put pen to pixel or whatever. Is that tonight's curry dinner still lingering? Will my lower back still feel tight tomorrow morning? Shouldn't I be reading one of those unread e-mails from the various personalities at my son's school?

Clearly uninspired, the minutes trickle forth to the tune of a plastic Ikea clock in the kitchen and an electrical serenade featuring the refrigerator and masking the subtle rumble of air-conditioning from somewhere deep in the apartment building. Periodically, a car hushes along the unnamed street outside the compound. Here in this dark room only brightened by the screen in front of me, some kind of e-moonbeam lights my way.