Hello, I’m 27 today.

The sky is a clear one tonight–the Penguins won the game and I had to hold my bike headlight in place with one hand for most of the ride home. Plus something in my lunch contained dairy so my stomach has been a centralized chaos, lugging the body up the hill home from work. Climb, climb climb.

Book release tomorrow! I’m quite excited. I would say more in awe perhaps, over any emotion/reaction/thought I could have concerning it right now. In awe that so many great, creative people jumped on board to be a part of it. In awe that I have been a part of the alumni Shadow Lounge family for going on seven years now. That microphone is home.

Sometimes I think about how awkward I get to feeling in large crowd, in fastwalking to work, at work, stuck between conversations. Then I think about writing and how doing it makes me feel, how nothing makes quite that much sense. And all that awkwardness dissipates. There is a little purpose, and I hold it as close as I can press it to the sternum. Mine. Passion and creativity–as frustrating as they can be at times, they are two constants…a constellation to guide me through. I started writing my formal bio last night while bartending and found the first line easy: it’s something I’ve been fascinated with since the first crayon became wrapped by my fist. And a name was written. Crooked, I’m sure. I’ll never forget about discovering words; the learning never stops. Onward, into the traffic of oncoming sentences. Still forming them.

kitty on cutting board.

there is a kind of light this month
it arrives in the morning, deceives me on the hour
every day thinking it’s later/i’m late
this light not blue, not white
not exact and never again unless
a late day storm executes perfect the pause
between the rolling in and niceties

and there is a kind of music
that will make you write about this light
while the light is still there
a hue in my heart and a hue around self
of clicking and bends

and there is a love
that introduces you to the notes
to a song that slowly dissipates
the death of tape
the one that makes you write,
and it is about this light
the light that could be storm but is
new day, a morning
a waking up.

one perk of working at a bar: unique gang of glass inheritance

(more…)

I don’t want to hear about how good you write
I should make that call for myself
Based on what you show me
Where you take me
To your kidhood again or
To bumping shoulders with some incident
That I can only hope to stretch enough to correctly imagine
Tell me a lie and make me believe it
Convince me that the story found you—that it
Simply opts your voice a choice weapon and sings itself through
Remind me that art is beyond us,
Something needed more than cell phones
Something sanity grips when all handholds are gone

Don’t just tell me about what frustrates you
Tell me about what gets you past it
What did the moon do to the street that night
when you said screw it to your curfew
how the neighborhood slept surrounded by you living awake
how many sentences and assumptions do you stuff into the handshake
how many doors in your chest
which ones are shut
what of the padlocks put there
whisper to me which window to open
let ears be an ocean to rush in

Went to the New Yinzer event last night to see Renee read her poetry. That lady…she never ceases to amaze me. I hope she is reading this: you blew me away, you wonderful darling you.
I had tears in my eyes watching her read, to think how I’ve witnessed her work growing over the years. And it has been years, how strange to think.

Also listened to Brendan Kerr read some fiction–my goodness can that fellow write. A perfect mix of detail and humor; I really enjoyed his work. I didn’t stay for the band–this I’m known to do when rolling solo to an event. I came, expecting to be inspired–once I received that, I was ready for the long walk home.

The book release is a week away, the 27th birthday in 9 days. Between those two things, I’m reading to the 8th and 9th grade at a high school in Homestead. On August 20th, I am featuring at The New Yinzer reading–it looks like an all female bill, which is always amazing. Between then and now, I have plans for the studio, the anthology–I am tripping all over myself because now I have 2 bios to write(I’m seriously used to just saying “For More About Me, Please Listen To the Following Songs,” and then listing the appropriate melodies). I know that this is a good excerise, but it’s so strange to meditate on the self in this light–describe enough of who you are, with a bit of your accomplishments, tied up with how you might (slightly) define the writing.

Our downstairs neighbor had their Jack Russell in the hallway between front door and back door–his name is Peanut. Peanut managed to squeeze through our door and come upstairs. Poor Abacus. She took off immediately, but you could almost hear the curiosity overcoming the fear–she came creeping around into the living room, behind the dog. I had to chase the dog up to the third floor, into my bedroom and receive the Abacus hand off from my roommate. She escorted Peanut to his proper home. Everyone’s fine, but boy was that a moment.

Speaking of peanuts, I guess my niece Maddie is allergic to them. My sister had to take her to the ER after a horrible reaction, which I’m sure was all kinds of scary. She’s okay though, and that’s the important thing.

Just around the corner, a three day weekend. The weather is warming up as well, finally. Day after day of rain, a certain eroding of mind while at my desk–every glance stolen to the windows revealed another storm, coming or going or both. I’m ready for a break from that.

(lyrics)
My mind is like an orchard
Clustered in frozen portraits
Blossoms that bloom so fine, just to drop from the vine
I’ve seen them all tonight

Who’d keep a silent orchard
I’ll shove it all to the floor boards
Her rusty heart starts to whine, in its telltale time so
For freedom tonight

Life is a measly portion
A light on good friends and fortune
It strips you away inside, drawn all your blinds
Conceal it all from sight

You took that final courter
Shot the boy, no quarter
We’ll skip to the final line of some suicide note well publicized
Or give it up tonight

Carry with bursting order
To the options you’ve layed before you
The needle, the dirty spoon, the flames and the fumes
Just throw them out tonight

The time that you’ve been afforded
May go unsolved, unrewarded
Some nameless you cannot know, may be coming to show you
Unbridled love and light

Should you grow an orchard?
Covered in dusty portraits
Blossoms that bloom so fine, just to drop from the vine
I’ll listen up tonight

Don?t keep it silent orchard
Shove it all to the floorboards
Your rusty heart will be fine, in its telltale time
So give it up tonight

there is always a light.