This from Poetry Daily

So you're home. Key to the lock, your clutter
and doubt through the door, hang your coat on its claw,
your palm in bloom, your shadow half-opened.
Any wonders under the bed, in the bend
of your knee? Any new or made new or nomads who
make songs into houses? It's humid,
humming in the locust trees, with eleven rings
on the telephone. Lift that crescent to your ear
and dust off your laughter, some dissonant love;
there's one with a brick house, and one who loves
to break. Where is a calm as is?
Half asleep, bottled in with the breeze,
one world yawning, another burning
too far from your door.
Where's here, or our? Where rivers
branch in your fist, and your errors
stand by you, won't blame you for
the rigid outlines you unloosed through the door.
Enough. And half, then another
paper clip, a clapping thunder,
book in your lap, feet on a chair,
when some haggard cherub
says you're neither particle nor wave
nor even disquiet tonight
—has the weave
of kisses come undone again?
Are you too stubborn again? But then your brain
unbuttons, drifts to the floor, and pure
as the past, you start over.

Joanie Mackowski

View from a Temporary Window
University of Pittsburgh Press


Preparing for His Journey Into Adulthood

So Jack's car is in the shop again, which puts him in a really crabby mood. My usually easy-going son is frustrated and huffy. Needing to let off a little steam, he went with his girlfriend Dan, with whom he spends three hours a night at the Y, to Suburban Tap after their workout. Did not get home until 2 in the morning. Five hours later, he was dragging around in the kitchen, watching the coffee drip, when I asked him what he was thinking--staying out so late:

Jack: I dunno.

TR: Seriously, Jack. What could have been so fascinating?

Jack: Well, Dan was there, and Vickie, and B.T...

TR: Oh, B.T.'s mom lets him stay out till 2?

Jack: Yeah, she realizes he's pretty much 18, and there's not much she can say about it.

TR: I see. And does B.T. ask his mother to make him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to take to school every day?

Jack: Are you going to give me a ride or what?



Now available from Snake Nation Press.

Sample poem:


Ananaya of the Brown Nipples 
is trying to sweep up a spare,
my mate in line behind her. 
Others chat in the darklight 
of candles and campfires, 
but I’m too queasy for small-talk;
I’ve been over-served again. 
I’m overwhelmed of the senses--
preponderance of flesh, 
reek of patchouli and cannabis, 
competing beats of drum circles. 
Open-air showers, a communal 
kitchen: I’m tired of dirty
fingernails, greasy scalps, 
unchecked pheromonal ooze; 
tired of this weekend 
of musical gender-bending 
and letting-it-all-hang-
out-ness; and tired, too, 
of this game they’ve made 
of paneling, pins, 
and bales of hay, played 
sans sarong. It brings to mind 
my father’s famous costume soirees--
any excuse to don a diaper 
or a hula skirt, scant enough between 
his particular urges 
and any woman not my mother. 
Well, who but I would drag out 
the rags of her childhood 
during naked competition? 
Who, but I, wearing a mere scrap 
of fabric, knotted at the hip.



Lola's Food Journal

While oldest sis Sadie was in town this weekend, she bought Lola a blank book in which to record her daily food intake. This is part of Sadie's attempt to counter what she and the first-batch kids think is my master plan to sabotage their figures by eating vicariously through them. Their legend has it that since I am a recovering anorexic/bulimic I load my young offspring up on donut pudding. The way I see it, I've just misguidedly gone to the other side of the spectrum, trying NOT to obsess over their diets OR limit their autonomy. I've always said they can be the boss of their hair and their food. Give them that. Also, pink hair goes nicely with love handles. In any event, while my children might have taken a little while to shed their baby fat, all three older kids have learned from my awesome personal practices and--as adults--eat healthy and exercise, as I trusted they would.

But back to the point: Sadie and Lo have agreed to write down what they consume each day and call each other in the evenings to discuss. So I had this exchange with Lola before school this morning:

Lo: Did you put brownies in my book bag for snack like I asked you to?

TR: I did. Sadie's not going to like that.

Lo: I know. Hey, I promised her I'd try a new food every week.

TR: What are you thinking about trying first?

Lo: Well, I've never had the mint Three Musketeers.


Cheapskate's Anthem

That's what I think every time I hear this song. I mean, there she's been, looking forward to going out...she has the dress and the perfect shoes....But hey, just leave the t-shirt on and cancel the reservations. Maybe she can fry him up some chicken.

Friday Nostalgia


Tenth Circle

I heard a radio spot for this last night on my way home from class. The only way it could get closer to my own personal hell on earth is if the clowns came into the audience and fondled me.


Biggy Flooring

This has been going on since before Thanksgiving--the noise, the mess, the terrible lyrics...

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Writer, teacher, student, mom.

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