August 2019 Stats

Word Count:

12,610

Days I Didn’t Write:

18

New Poems:

1…I wrote 1 new poem *YAY*

Submissions:

4 sent out!

Zero accepted or rejected.

Project Notes:

So again, I did not do as much writing as I wanted to do this month (I really hope this isn’t going to be a trend). But I have a very good reason: I have started school again. After earning a BA and an MFA I’m going back to school to earn a BS in Laboratory Science. Chemistry is WAY too intense for it’s own good but it’s going to be literally ALL of my future job so I need to know it inside out. *sigh*

I did, however, focus on more of my poetry this month so it wasn’t all a waste*.

Not an Exit vol. 1 is coming along, I’m finalizing the table of contents and adding and subtracting stories. Three of the stories I want to include have themes of unrequited love or doomed romance. The rest of the stories are dystopian/post-apocalyptic. I’m still deciding whether or not I want to include everything in vol. 1 or make vol. 1 just about dystopia and make vol. 2 just about romance.

I haven’t added to any of The Slaughter Chronicles or The Heart of the Forest Cycle Drafts but I have done lots of brainstorming and have some awesome new artwork from Robin E. Vuchnick in the works.

I’m also putting thoughts towards writing another poetry collection that I will self-publish in 2021 or 2022 depending on how many poems I want in it. Lupercalia has about 50 ( I think…is it terrible that I don’t know how many poems are in my own poetry collection? ) so I’d like to publish something with 75. For me, 75 is a magic number when it comes to poetry. But I also have a chapbook sized idea that I want to focus on as well and I haven’t decided if that should be a separate thing or part of a bigger collection.

I think the most important thing I can take away from August is to stop being so fucking indecisive and write my fucking books.

*

*Note: none of it is a waste. You do what you can WHEN you can. My goal is to write every day because I want to, not because someone else told me I needed to. Always go at your own pace and don’t beat yourself up if you haven’t met your goals yet.

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

Mirror Angels

My reflections and I

plot the points of our knees

like stars scratched in the floor,

we can’t hold summer

in our flimsy hands.

I lean my head against the point where two mirrors join together in a museum exhibit and suddenly I am one girl split into three. This is educational. This is sacred division. I whisper softly to us but they don’t answer my prayers for rescue, escape. I can only mimic their arms with my arms and I cannot decipher the secret within our bodies.

The rough stars

join constellations

Gaping-Mouth-of-Disbelief

with Grinning-Face-

That-is-Not-a-Face.

I look into the mirrors and there are girls who wear my face but not my memories. I look into the mirrors, I look at us and I am so happy that at least some of us are free. When I stand they turn their backs to me and greet their secret, intangible worlds. I cannot go with them when I walk away.

*

This poem was first published in Atlas Poetica in 2015 and republished in my collection Lupercalia.

Photo by Serrah Galos on Unsplash

Drinking Music

guitar eyes

drunk on that

music

scream low

smug eyelashes

take bastards

into heaven

hot lights

red clay

a little piece of

that July highway

a little relief

from god

*

Found Poem: pages 45-72 of Trash by Dorothy Allison.

This poem was first published in my collection Lupercalia.

Photo by Mariana Vusiatytska on Unsplash

In the Voice of My Poetry

My poetry is about finding lost things.

If drinking makes you sick, don’t drink.

Find a clean puddle and dip your cup in that; drink the moon on the water.

My grandmother never wanted my grandfather to leave (he was an alcoholic). She had one sister who thought she was prettier than everyone else. Her grave has dead plants on it. And pink marble.

My poetry is about falling across the road as a bloody smear and making a new boundary, a new border.

My poetry is about an imaginary map.

I was born alone.

Wild roses are my favorite.

My poetry is about rotting and returning to the earth.

*

This post is inspired by Bhanu Kapil’s Blog

Photo by Felipe Santana on Unsplash

Hotel Magic

pelvic bone

demolition

painkiller hotel

and hunger

cold coffee the

shattered lover

intoxicated

vertebrae

tangled

in the

Delta

transformation

night

sky-

dive

THE MAJESTIC HOTEL

BURNED FOR NEARLY

48 HOURS

Big Dipper

spiraling

catastrophe

*

Found poem. Source: The New York Times, April 2014.

This poem was first published on my old blog Chewing Wormwood and then republished in my collection Lupercalia. (I can’t believe I remembered my old blog’s name!)

Photo by Ph B on Unsplash