i haven’t updated this blog in over a year but just realized it is the third result when someone googles my name so hello here i am i am back and i am doing a new post, but let’s be real, i’m only doing this so that i have another social media platform to share my new book on.
so yes, i wrote this book, it is poetry and it is fiction and it is very nice to read. it is open for pre-orders now. you can click this sentence and it will take you to a nice site that will tell you even more information about it.
thank u ❤
Elizabeth Ellen published a long sort-of-poem of mine over at Hobart last week. I wrote this in ~February of this year. It initially started out as only the to-do list and my friend Natalie Chin helped edit and suggested that I expand it a lot. Anyway, very happy with how it turned out and very happy to have it at Hobart.
“Is it possible to care too much?” “Who do you think you care too much about?” “I just mean, in general.” “Sure.” “Really?” “Some people don’t deserve your care.” “But some of them do.” “I don’t think you would be asking that question about the ones that really do.” “Am I an idiot for caring too much?” “I think you’re a good person.” “I think I am a bad friend.” “Who are we talking about again?” “I’m sorry I am a bad friend.” “You’re not making any sense.” “I want to be able to show people I care.” “Do you care?” “I want to be sincere.” “You are.” “I got lost for a long time today in my own neighborhood. It’s like I couldn’t remember what certain sidewalks looked like in the wintertime.” “I miss you when it’s cold.” “Animals are good at self-expression because they don’t know how to be dishonest.” “Please listen to me.” “My hair is too long.” “I want you to hear this.” “I am an idiot.” “Yeah.” “I’m sorry I am a bad friend.” “Okay.”
Last week I released the first issue of a project I have been working on called Parlor.
Parlor Issue 1 is an online collection of 4 poems by 8 writers. Writers were paired up and asked to write a poem based off of a title prompt without knowing who their partner was.
Exquisite corpse art was invented in the 1920s by the Surrealists as a parlor game. The first player would write on a sheet of paper, fold it over to conceal part of their piece, and hand the paper to the next player. The players would only find out what the other players wrote when the poem was finished.
After a bit of thorough Gmail correspondence with myself being the middlewoman between partners as they wrote their parts, the poems are now finished and published.
You can view them here and you can read beach sloth’s review here.
I was never a fan of science fiction, fantasy or other worldly ideas or inventions, but I never wanted a time machine more than when I met you. I was convinced you weren’t here for good, here to stay. You did not disappoint, and I was left with an unyielding pining for a craft that would allow me to rewind time, reverse your actions and my words, a metal box that would take me back to when you first noticed I was standing next to you at that concert and invited me over for a drink with your friends, an electrical port that would return me to your sunlit bedroom, sitting on the edge of your mattress and talking about the posters on your dirty walls. While we’re at it, I wouldn’t mind if I had something to freeze time too, so that I could stop everything in that moment, kiss you wholly on the lips without fear that in two months you would never invite me back to spend these days with you again.
You showed off a picture that your mom took when you went home to visit her and the dogs. You were sitting in a lawn chair in your garage, your grandpa’s old motorcycle, broken down in the corner next to rusted nails and hammers and a garden hose that was tangled in knots. A red and white banner was pinned to the wall, and I remembered why you are the reason I love the American flag. The blue in the corner is the years I waited for a simple boy to realize I am an unforgettable girl. The red stripes are smiles, making plans three nights in a row, breakfast sandwiches cut in two, half for me and half for you. Every star is contact with your body– my nose on your cheek, your ear on my shoulder, our feet underneath a table, your fingers, my hair. The white stripes are the space where everything began to drift apart, unanswered phone calls, emails never replied, turning around, and walking away. My flag went up in flames as soon as the sun came out for spring, and my bones grow cold at every flag I see hanging from a pole, and if that’s not love, then I must just be alone.
He watched the girl studying by the window. She flipped a page every other second. She couldn’t really be learning anything that way.
He looked down at his own hands. His fingers were calloused, and he didn’t know why. His hands had always been rough and dry. He put his head into his hands and felt the heavy weight he was holding. Was his head heavier than other heads? There was a lot going on inside there, but he also thought at the same exact time that it was pretty empty.
He had a heavy, empty head.
He peered between his fingers. The girl was still rapidly flipping pages. He felt like he was going to throw up, so he put his forehead on the table. This is better, he thought. At least if I throw up in this position, it’ll go straight onto the floor, maybe even under the table. Maybe no one will hear me. Unless I’m really loud. Sometimes you just have to be really loud when you throw up.