Artist, writer, designer, musician, anthropologist.
MFA Candidate in Poetry at the University of Michigan. Digital media illustration / web & graphic design. Social media & marketing maven. Participant observer and poetic rabble-rouser. Classically trained lyric soprano. Pin-up artist. I dunno, I just make things.
<<<< >>>>
Search
Twitter feed
Loading Tweet...
Find me on...
Posts I like
-
Another shot of the irises at the park
-
-
-
Beach hair and my 5th grade smile (Taken with instagram)
-
-
Here are some STEP BY STEP pictures of how I draw trees, Hope this helps some of you tree hugging monkeys out there.
(click to enlarge the pictures...
-
iPad coloring test
-
Two Slice Tuesday.
Where is the Tumblr/Seamless integration I’ve been pushing for!? I should be able to order this food directly...
-
omg so cute
buy it here.
-
Tag Results
14 posts tagged writing
Unexpected Successes
I’m doin some NaPoWriMo in honor of National Poetry Month, 30 poems in 30 days. MARATHON! Just submitted Day 1 as a private post for now, but I’m not entirely sure how to do this. To participate on the website I think I have to post about it publicly, but I don’t want to publish it per se in that way. So… ngh?
-
Oh hey guys. Long time no talk. I got into some amazing grad schools, MFA candidate. For poetry. So this will probably be a thing now, this poetry thing. Yeah. YEAH!! :D I’ve been applying for two years, and that and the $1500 on year and $2000 the next in app fees finally, FINALLY paid off. So this fall I will be attending a graduate program for poetry that is fully funded. I have the next week to decide where I’m going. Scary! Amazing!
I’m chillin in the STL and working on artsy fartsy stuff and have been flying to visit schools. That’s all. How are you?
At Night
I. He Dreams About Nepal In the dark, with cool blue clouds falling through windows But he is dead, the unreachable turn— She dreams of her mother, Menominee eyes She strikes Thoughts of others roll past, —— A sequence. Something of an older style.
he sees that place he could crawl to stone-on-bare-knees–
He’d like to live there (she knows), on high mountain
ranges, close enough, wet, absent. The air
tastes like time, incensed and old in his teeth.
Windy cliffs, a dry wind that pulls, a mindful relinquishing
to bell-tone prayer flags. In this place,
far from buzzing sharp insects deep in pits,
he might leave his feet, become something less
tangible, the invisible ever-present man.
II. She Covets Fiji
she might hate him for dreaming so easily.
Hers are waking dreams, half-finished paintings
inside salt lids. She wants to see Fiji’s
soft beaches, and green, saturation and hue
in thick dull curtains weighted by dust, not this
heavy, slack-jawed, unfazed.
and ragged oil skin, cunning
empress of what’s-best.
Spots linger in the dark
veiled skin, wont
to break.
with don’t-bite-your-nails shorter, past
‘folles avoines’, past Fiji,
where Mother’s face weeps.
The black refines to wasps,
larger and louder and furious
drone-buzzing awake and upright.
III. At Night
some humpity-himp lolling what-ifs and perhaps do-overs
list left then right, near to dreaming.
I need water, it’s dark, I’m cold, I want
closure and pity sex and for-the-roads
and maybe also a sandwich.
Himpity-hump rollover
he must be dreaming by now,
a great beasty lump under my fucking covers
quiet to dead any moment.
Lol sex. They aren’t all winners. Yet.
Anyone else wanna get in on the revival of magnetic poetry here?
Edit: Oh, and the disqus comments vanished for a while. Fixed, as is the facebook button (gone! since no one said they wanted to be my frend hoho!). Chasing Elephants theme hates being updated and corrupts my links. :\ New layout soon. Thanks followers, for stickin with me. <3
bought some magnetic poetry yesterday in hopes of writing more and utilizing our magnetic yellow door. didn’t magnetic poetry include punctuation at some point? maybe ill cut apart some of the two dozen ‘like’s and make periods and commas. (Taken with picplz.)
Pale-skinned Witness
Pale-skinned witness, the men are singing
so stamp bell-ridden to cradle song, you
Six Nation women. I am you and not you.
But Namegiver she love me
as if I were not so white. His fingers, he love me
to darkness. Like striking clangbang
rumblerattle feet drum in my dust
I live! I eat! The men who wrote me voracious
never knew living so consumed.
-
—-
One of my daily drabbles, or a poem-in-progress. It’s just a rough start, a jumping-off point. I am cleaning house today, posting sketches hopefully, etc etc. Cornell sent me an email saying they decide by mid- to late-February, so now I won’t have to wait until April to start getting told my writing is subpar. ;D
I’m of the Oneida Tribe of Wisconsin, Turtle Clan. :)
Drabbles.
—-
a whole mess of the god-slodge, the putter-thwack-slumping of boots through cold marshes and I had more faith in the institutions before now. Set those senseless straight, I am waiting for the same message I’d wish on them, the eyes lit falling downward by kind consolations. When you’ve decided the waiting leeks have heard enough of assurances, your wish to be one of them. & Oh I might even start writing again,
-
the things you can’t compete with
the words you wished for
every wound, every salt-laden passerby;
-
A loss that never leaves her lonely
words aching to spread, inhabit
his curve of scapulae, her mandible
where she fits as if the time were leaving
slow and deliberate as the alpinist
who tests each foot before it falls.
-
—she shrugs her shoulders, a shaking out, of old acquaintances, shaken hands, the once how-have-you-been less urgent soon. What use for these damp feather-friends, pressed slick to her back like mourning and harder and harder to take off? What use tell her to let go, if everything and everyone can perish.
-
—she begins to see the world as a nautilus, a shining curved mother-of-pearl thing, with its slipshades so thin you’d even see nighttime through their lining, stars pierce more than diamonds. Into the outer lobe of the shell she turning and settling in to grant audience the thoughts that plague, the ants of brief longing. Incipient, tableau, slither-clicking off the tongue struck numb and breathing, echoes loud in the halls, this tunnel chute, what can be done, what can be done but to make them indelible.
—-
Sir Edwin Landseer’s dog was not
so loyal, and his tawny coat
not so lean, but clean, delicate,
so Edwin paints burrs, matted raspy
feathered mess, a look-what-the-cat-
-dragged-in dog, and a collar
to remind him its only man’s
due, this slovenly unfettered
devotion. People love a dog
down on his luck.
Sir Edwin puts on
his best coat to paint,
just in case, when walked-in on
he’d look put-together,
well-kept, a brown artly
sort. Or in deathly repose
he’ll mimic this figure, water cup
tipped over, linseed oil soaking
the carpet in colours mixed
(but too bright, abandoned),
the veridians, carmine, butter
yellow diluted in a cheap twine rug,
and maybe the dog
would stay by his side now, or,
curious and rigid, he licks the smear
of titanium white on your brow, and falls
right down dead beside you.
—-
**from Landseer’s painting, “Attachment”
An older piece, putting it down for the count. But there are a few things I liked, so I’ll share it. Photoreply with your fave image for ekphrasis if you have one.
