Lunar Lammas moon tide prayer, oh Goddesses of bikini poem burrito.

At the peak of the summer it makes sense, I have no underwear and haven’t since I got back from school. Meaning I haven’t gotten to the Laundromat. I give thanks to the goddess of bikinis who oversees summer’s peak. I have so many, the tops and bottoms never match, yesterday at Sleepy’s I scrounged…

Lammas tide in Huntington Beach

When I sleep on the couch at Derynne’s my body refills itself the same way that happens when I am in the back room at Grandma’s.  I don’t know how it happens or why it does this.  The couch is sort of lumpy and often the cats scrounge around on my chest and make the…

Oh Hobbit House.

Oh blessings on this gift, which is my hand-made life, woven together of benediction and surrender, embracement and loss…Oh I look around this morning and give such thanks.

New Moon: She takes up pen, again.

It’s been a million days of this I think, and as I write such words I see the gray slant of my ceiling in the morning, the days leading up to, but especially following,  Aunt Mary’s death.  Grief, which sits like a bone in the air. Its smooth, cold, calcium-yearning.  Always there, blocking the place…

Friday, but not my town poem

Friday but not my town, a hawk flies & wings in the air make trilling sound imagined, as the screech above and outside my door puts the hair to raise up on my arms. I am thinking of you again, not for nothing but need for magic.  And men. My mother, I finally told her…

RANT. Plenty of fish?

Seriously, the amount of “men”–or, as what I am about to write might indicate–Peter Pans on the dating site makes me laugh again and again, makes me shake my head. Ok, truth?  I guess my curiosity HAS gotten the best of me, I need to know– What has your life been like that the amount…

Open Letter to Brooks Long, on the prophecy moon of summer fruit.

Catfish, I was sitting on the floor in my hobbit house, on two plush pillows that are hand-me-downs from the upstairs neighbor who moved out.   I live in a hand-me-down house. I was sitting in the hand-me-down hobbit house on hand-me-down pillows on the floor, on a hand-me-down rug from the woman who lived…

Virgil McFarland

Virgil McFarland called me eighteen times in one night. The honey-tongued woman on the recording said nine of those times the same thing into my voice mail, “an inmate from the North County Penitentiary is trying to reach you, press one to accept this call, press the pound sign to deny.” When you pressed one…

In the summer you write in the morning.

What can I tell you that you don’t already know?   The 101 in Ventura County in June smells strawberry sweet.  There are paintings of seagulls on a wall in town, circling a convertible. My sister-in-law is 8 and a half months pregnant and I never got to hug her when her belly was big…