b. 1977

what have i yet to learn? everything i don’t know, i’m sure, and while everything i do (think) i know twists and cavorts itself up into silly, feminine heaps, i lie disgusted by my own stuff to no end… i wish, stories would come to me naked, begging to be clothed and fed and written, in plain sight and good english, sensible to the knowing, and accessible to the unseen… and yet, i muddle through motherhood, lovelife, and a semi-professional semi-career. daughter of divorce and mother of a dream, sister to a prisoner, and lover to a scream…deferred. (pop.) the unreliability of transient sentiments, (back to the root of my disdain) the grotesqueness of femininity, i can never seem to hold it all in… here i purge, but my urges to love and grow and bloom and run fiercely toward an unknowable, but fathomable future, to wallow in optimism while steeped in reality, toking on time, wondering at the breakdown of a body out of its roaring twenties. time stands still never, is always approximate, and the truth is wicked in my bones: carpal tunnel forming, knots in my back, brown in the whites of my eyes, my body (untouched) is only a temple of memory…something forgotten and used to be woman… sanguine (suck it in), intrepid (street walker), dashed (former dime)… and so i write.