We have lift off

So, having now completed her 2nd round trip flight, CV has flown more than probably 85% of the world. And, also, she has her own wings...

I wish you were here, even more

I'm sad that our experiment is almost over. Thanks, folks, for all your great posts. It's been quite a joy to wander through your worlds.


Found in bed today: lizard tail, crystal earring, Scarlet O'Hara pin

Found in mail today: a gift from the sea fairy (oh oh oh! thank you, Poe!) 

Found in class today: Kate's poem "2 of Swords" brings tears to eyes (not just mine) and promotes sincerity in the classroom:
2 of Swords
~ Kate Greenstreet

There's always that moment
with people, right?
You look back...
you can't believe

how they just
don't love you.
And how,
in the minute before that,
you didn't know.

There was a place, near water.
The people had come
from somewhere else, and settled.
How we came to exist.
How we came to be here, everywhere
at once.

How could I say nothing?

Well, it's a long walk ahead.
For a long time,
I didn't know.
And it's all just another
story about how life could be.

A psychic told me once I had the mind of a nun.
As if there would be only one kind, for nuns.
The offices of seers we consulted in the South
sometimes had chickens. The vestibules
were swimming with the poor--
bobbing, drowning, in our lake
of dreams and wishes.
Tell me everything
you want to do while there's still time.
Keep in touch.

Think about the leaves
and the birds
in branches.
Think about the words
Big Picture.
The Big Picture.

For a long time,
I didn't know what to say.
And of course I didn't want to say it.
When everything depends--has always
depended on acting like nothing is wrong.

Fruit trees blooming in the blood drenched ground,
a ringing phone--
it's what we're in the middle of.

If we realized the extent to which no one understands
what anybody else really means
by anything they say, well,
you say we'd all go crazy.
But aren't we crazy already?
With trying and pretending
and being mad about it--I mean angry.

There was a place, near water.
How we all came to be,
at once.

My prayer is changing.


Found in class today: when you offer a student permission to break free, they take it

a stray walk-in/terloper standing stranger

I heard breathing and a sniff. T. had left and E. was outside. I walked from room to room, but there was no one I could see.

when the clairvoyant pauses, one buys a glove box

who she sung herself to be

True Story

This is the first of many weekends to be spent cleaning out this God forsaken house. Today, I gave up pulling weeds outside because of the largest impregnated spider I have ever seen. That was just the last straw. I am preparing to leave and that's what makes it all worth it. It might just be 3 months of doing things like pulling up tree-sized weeds from the corners of my fence (as seen here), or raking up a 2-year-old plastic bag of cat shit and liter left outside the bedroom window of an old (disgusting, WoW addict) roommate.

This is the first of many weekends where my boyfriend and I will have to give up any daytime enjoyment for practically's sake, as well as empty the garage for the umpteenth time, have a yard sale, have tile put in the bathrooms and laundry room, and repaint the interior. We are not selling it, mind you. Or should I say, my father is not selling it. Not in this market; there is no way. (There are 3 houses in foreclosure on my block alone.) When my boyfriend and I are gone, the house will be rented. And best of all: out of my hands.

This could be the first of many weekends where my father comes into town, means to do good, but ends up stirring up all this unsettled bullshit inside me in the process. We've already argued about this house recently. And, we are still both a little sore from it. It just so happened to follow a therapy session in which I admitted to Anna, my doctor, that I felt as if all the grimy corners of this house represent all the parts of my unexamined self; as if the corners of that self are left unclean because I am too lazy to clean them out. How it's a terrible trait, that I can't keep a house, but then my intellectual self speaks up and says I've had other priorities, that I'm young and haven't yet figured out all the details of taking care of myself while expecting nothing but achievements in art, relationships, school, work, friendships, etc. Then I step away from both selves and tell myself none of this is real.

I know I connect those objects with people and events so the thoughts ticker passed my mind's eye something like this house unclean corners father failures. Since when am I a little girl? Sometimes I wish he had never been in a financial position to buy this house five years ago, when the market was high, because now the market is low, and so are wages, and so is job availability. My father is a baby boomer, one of a generation familiar with recessions. He is also an Italian immigrant of the post WWII kind--Ellis Island, the whole nine, the third of 8 children, 16 years old when he came to America with his mother and siblings. The oldest men had to quit school and work. I know he is proud that I am about to receive a master's degree while he never had the chance to finish high school. I am sure it is part of fulfilling his American Dream; that, and being a successful, self-actualized beach dwelling business man. It actually worked for him.

Because he still owns this house he can still tell me what to do. I hate being told what to do. I realize I am childlike this way, but I don't think anyone really likes it. I think most just tolerate it because of some false belief that it is necessary to tolerate such treatment, like say, from a boss, in the adult world. Who made up these rules? Probably the same people who made up the rule that I can't throw the weeds into the retention pound behind my house. A. It's just where the neighborhood shit goes. B. Earth is earth. People like my father who want you to bag the weeds you just pulled up and place them on the curb so the garbage man can take them to the part of the earth that is government designated for bulk trash.

Sometimes I can't handle the modern formalities of owning anything. I would make an exception for my car, and at this point, just live it in. After taking care of a house for the last five years I want to own as little as possible for the next five years. I am grateful I have had this house for the last five years (although it may not sound like it, the way this is going). Just, have you ever felt like your things own you? It's never as overwhelming as when that thing is a house. I dream only in houses. About the dogs of old boyfriends. And escaping.

Escape is coming, but in the form of more commitment. More commitment for just 3 more months. And then? And then we leave. I quit my job. Sell nearly everything I own. Gather the cats. Go towards the beach. For six months or so. Relax. Work to live. Cut expenses. Lack possessions. Make some music. Eat. Love. Sleep.


soil dried to cracking.
there was no rain.
there was no rain
to fill the broken
grackle egg.

Who was she, while she was traveling?

A ballad tells a story.


I die a little

another day of making something out of nothing.
another day of making nothing out of something.

in the bosque near the Otowi Bridge

The Pojoaque River Art Tour is tomorrow.

Here is some artwork by Trevor Oche.

Fact-Simile will be on the tour, too.


Someone says to you they've just been asked an "odd" question about cannibalism... what constitutes a "normal" question about cannibalism?

open the door

all her habitats

Post Car-Wreck

Following a fatal car accident on the morning of September 16th, 2010, near the corner of St. James & 6th Street, (San Jose, California) an altarpiece appeared the following day on the site of Death. Que viva la vida.

What's Left

I was inspired to write this after Selah posted "Love Poem" by Richard Brautigan:

What’s Left

He tells her he thinks she should write her mother. “Explain to her how you feel,” he says. “If you do it in writing,” he says, “she won’t have the chance to cut you off.” She doesn’t want to hear about her mother or what he thinks. She walks away.

He passes her in the kitchen and she says, “You are to blame for a lot of what has happened.” He calls her a cunt. She’s used to being called a cunt. She’s doesn’t care what he says, he’d never admit a wrong. He says he’s not to blame, “That stupid cunt bitch astrology loving mother of yours is a no good asshole. I’ve said from the beginning that she’s a stupid cunt bitch. I hate that fucking cunt.”

Her mother is no longer a part of her life.

When her father died earlier this summer, she began stripping away parts of her life that no longer needed to be.

She’s cleaning the toilet, their toilet, when he places the box that needs a shipping label on the desk, her desk. He stops to watch her clean the toilet. He leaves and she hears him sit on the couch and watch tv. He’s watching Home Improvement. She thinks to herself that he needs a personal improvement and for the first time that day, smiles. She finishes scrubbing the toilet and takes the gloves to the kitchen. She notices he is drinking a beer. It is 11 am.

She prints a shipping label, places it inside the box that needs to be shipped, and carries the box to the kitchen table. He has placed a roll of scotch tape inside the box that needs to be shipped. The label is ½ the size of a piece of loose leaf paper and the top of the box still needs to be sealed, too. There is not enough tape to do everything and they are out of packaging tape, so she leaves the box and the label on the kitchen table. She goes back to what she was doing.

She’s dusting the office when he yells from the living room over the tv that the box needs to go out in today’s mail. She says they are out of packaging tape. He does not reply.

She has finished cleaning the bathroom, kitchen, office and living room. She has changed the sheets, did the laundry, ran the dishwasher, de-pooped the back yard, and is now creating cover letters for various jobs. He comes into the office and asks her what she is doing. She says she is writing cover letters. “Why?” he asks. “You are a stupid lazy bitch with no work ethic. I told you that package needed to go out in today’s mail. The mail man just pulled up outside and you still don’t have the fucking package on the front step.” “I told you we were out of packaging tape hours ago,” she says. “Well then, stupid, you should have gone to get some,” he says.

He watches the mail man drive away from the front porch and yells inside, “Way to go stupid retard!” Inside he says, “The package didn’t go out.” She tells him that in the time he has spent bitching at her while watching tv and drinking beer he could have went and got packaging tape, sealed up the box, and put it in today’s mail. He says he has to do everything.

He takes the car somewhere. She feels like she needs to get out. She gets on her bike. She ends up at the library. She goes inside, turns around, and leaves. She sits on a bench. She people watches. She wonders what a stupid fat lazy dumb cunt bitch looks like. She takes a picture of herself with her phone’s camera.

When she arrives home he is there. He asks where she was. She says she was riding her bike. He tells her she’s a whore.

That night he is still bitching at her about the box and her laziness when she opens a can of Chef Boyardee ravioli for dinner. He says she is a dumb lazy stupid fat cunt bitch. He asks her why the roast is not ready for dinner and she tells him that tonight she is too stupid fat lazy and dumb to make him dinner. He says she is all those things every night. “Fucking bitch,” he spits. The ravioli swells in her stomach and she feels ill.

She gets ready for bed and from the bathroom she can hear him telling the dogs that their mother is a stupid bitch. She thinks, yes, I am.

The Appearance of Another Self

If I were a biker, I'd be the front rider, the MC president guiding the rest to their destination: a seat around my old wooden table, where the decisions are made via vote.

If I were a bartender, I'd make drinks strong enough to take taste buds right off your tongue.

If I were an amputee, I'd be a lot like Lt. Dan: fighting God manifested in a hurricane from the peak of a fishing boat.

If I were a farmer, I'd grow the sweetest red beats you've ever had.

If I were a cake maker, I'd pump the icing full of LSD.

Morning preyers

I thought that you were hungry
I know you like eggs

But you could just want to warn me
about the recent salmonella outbreak

Or you could be waiting for me to 
open the door so you can hop/fly away 

There is no way for me to know unless you tell me.

I got closer
You let me touch your antennae
You cocked your head at me when I whistled

You are not a woman in prayer, you are something different, 
something that preys and I am not afraid

I'll cook you eggs in any style
and yes I want to hold you

Beautiful creature, I am honored by your presence 
I will open up my palm and hope that you crawl up

I won't pick you up unless you ask me to. So far, all I can hear you say is,
"Lean in closer, lean in closer."

world wide web

because it was once submerged,
all her habitats under water
My sister said of walking DC w/o CV: "Suddenly I'm invisible on the street. Weird. People walk right by me without a glance..."



Arches Text Wove about to turn into a new book...

Bicentenario Sounding

A walk from Colonia Roma Sur to Bellas Artes, Col. Centro, on the night of el grito, 15 september 2010, during the celebration of Mexico's independence bicentennial. (The cumbia starts about 6 minutes in, don't miss it. Classic tracks recorded in front of a blown-out speaker with el puebo ahí gozando.)

Adam, speaking of gunshots,

closer to home

Dear angel,
I will take you to a high place
where you will be
applauded with gold coins,
and there will be no need
to carry them home.

Independence Day

Viva México. Walking to studio two people died in car crash in the morning. News and photographers and mumbling bystanders gawking at medics and police.

Arrived to studio, ants invaded trash and were crawling in pages of Black Book. Many ants, every day, have to slap and sweep away.

Music for Angela

Girl- A lot of folks have a problem with Kanye, but this song.
Oh this song...
sometimes it works when nothing else does.

happy birthday ariel bui!

today is my best friend's birthday. she lives in taos, new mexico and i haven't seen her in almost a year. she builds earthships and is in love.

"what if i get married and have babies?" she wrote in her last letter. "would you be my best man? would you be my midwife? i would be so honored. would you help me build my home? i need your capricorn hands."

we are soulmates. i ache missing her today but it feels good to love someone like this.

On Lakes & el Bicentenario in Tenochtitlán

Then the country turned 200 and some went out into the streets and bought beer and tequila and drank it. Others bought beer and tequila and stayed in their houses and drank it. Some sang the national anthem with tears in their eyes. Others criticized the country until there were tears in their eyes. The point is that most everyone drank and walked the tightrope of laughter and tears that has been this country's acrobatics from the beginning. 200 years is nothing; the city has 489 years in this.

Everyone knows that 489 years ago this city was a lake. Not filled with metaphor, filled with water. The university scientists could explain how it is that a lake turned into a city, but I can't. Chinampas into milpas, capitalist human thirst, destruction of cosmovision, etc. Along those lines. The point is that the city and its monuments were constructed on a slushed mix of sand and water. This is why the earthquakes with their distant epicenters cause so much fear. Hardly any solid ground.

In the centro, the conquerors built one cultural palace out of solid marble. Now their grandchildren measure how many centimeters it has sunk into the sand this year.

The ska band started to play in the old centro. So many pairs of feet began to jump in unison that the whole centro began to shake on the beat. A human earthquake. Small by earth's standards.

200 years of human history, the entire formation of a modern political state. 489 years of mestizaje and laughter and tears. Small by earth's standards. A big deal for the humans here at the moment.

Now you know everything

From today in the moment of waking

Getting Through

Music. It's the best way to get through the rough parts. This week, M.I.A. has been helping me say energized and gets me moving in my car, that way I don't spend that time in my car alone stressing out, but rather dancing in my seat.

Check it, if you haven't already.


I'm inspired by JenMarie's question, "What song must you dance to when played?" But instead of thinking of a song, I immediately wonder why some people refuse to dance at all.

the appearance of another self

My bags just went through a security xray. "Um, Ma'am what's in that bag?" "It's a beast pump for breast milk." Huge blush, "Oh, okay. Proceed."


a demon rendered into language from space

Why is possession so frightening? I encounter a demon on the page. Just seeing the words arranged in a way that suggests evil, I become anxious. I am, in fact, ever so slightly afraid to keep reading. As though taking the works into me invite the demon, too (are the words the spirit? Is language the spirit or vibration?). I read on and there are two stories at work—that of the unseen and that of the physical world. The unseen are where the demons live, the physical is where the effects occur. What does a demon do in the unseen world when he is not possessing a body? One can only communicate a demon (the presence of) with language.

Neigh Neigh


it seems so long

I waited for clouds to exit.

but then to enter

a room full of fluttering

leaves, or feathers

after such a long season—

that was the spent walking,

that was burnt eyes—

or sunlight required

a sidecar with a little

warm bourbon to smile.

Psychograph for Steven Johnson Leyba




4 Demonic Seals on Cardinal Points
9/11/2010: I meet the Reverend Steven Johnson Leyba

Job Hunting

Again, I have nothing. I am sorry. I've given everything to cover letters and questions that should be reserved for a face-to-face interview. Grrr.

breeding season

Pokie does not want to wait for the bucks to be brought. She doesn't care for the farmer's math, which says it's best not to have kids in February. When Jasmine and I moved the goats this morning to begin milking, she wandered over to Sundance and Iggy's pen, tail wagging and showing her gums. Both bucks perked up and began sniffing the air. In the words of Michelle Tea: girlstink. Bucks pee on themselves in order to attract ladies. Don't stand too close to Sundance, Cathy warns. He might pee on you.

Sorry, Pokie. You have to wait. (But we don't: make out in the orchard like furtive teenagers)

A Form of Exile in a Country Under Construction*

(*the title of this post is swiped from an interview in Trickhouse.org)

My Daily Horoscope: This quality of time will help you to develop a deeper understanding of those psychological areas that are connected with the experience of pain, suffering and rejection. This influence is especially well suited to so deepening the understanding of these interrelations that the first inklings of how to carry out a healing can be perceived. During this phase it is important to talk to other people who are interested in this theme. This time is well suited to penetrating the complicated connections and dependencies between human behavior, the psyche and early injuries - to differentiate between cause and effect, whether for yourself or for someone who has confided in you. (www.astro.com)

Country: the land of a person's birth, residence, or citizenship (Definition 2a from Merriam-Webster Dictonary)

I believe in horoscopes. I believe in signs. I believe in going into the darkness and trusting that there will be again be light. I believe that I am a body/mind/spirit under construction. Not an island, but a country, with distinct boundaries (skin, eyes, mouth, fingernails) and borders (personal history, gains, losses, relationships, childhood, hurts, healing) that are sometimes difficult to cross, both outward and inward. Ethically I do not believe in country borders, but I acknowledge that they exist. I live very close to the border between Mexico and Los Estados Unidos.

I cannot pretend that there is not a wall being built. I cannot pretend that there are not drones. I cannot pretend that borders do not cause pain and suffering.

Raw: Unburnt, unbaked; not hardened or fused by fire. (Definition 1d from OED)

Pain, suffering, and rejection. I like it better when my horoscope speaks of romance, friendship, and money. But today the stars are encouraging me to engage on these topics. So here I am unbaked by fire. And again exploring the topic of suffering. I keep returning to this unlearned lesson. I would rather reach the part of the cycle where I am a being composed entirely of light.

Exile: Enforced removal from one's native country. / Self-imposed absence from one's country. (Definitions 1a and 1b from answers.com)

I believe that pain, suffering, and rejection can cause a form of exile. Enforced or self-imposed removal from the true self. A desire/longing to banish one’s self from the object of scorn: the rejected self, the painful suffering self. This form of exile from a country under construction is dangerous.

The bridge could be blown up and how would I return across an ocean that I cannot see across?


The doorman of our hotel has a 1 week old. Ditto the man grilling corn on the roof last night. They were both 6 feet of shocked exhaustion. Wobbling disbelief.


sneaky peek of a new trading card

Embrace your inner hobo!

as I was moving out of The BabyHead Wax Factory formerly Known as a Monster of Debauchery, the rain came and left. As the sun fell into the rocks, a double rainbow formed, arcing over the warehouse. This photo does not capture the spectrum of the sight. It does transfer the symbol. I ask myself what it means, and laugh at my brain. What does it mean? What do I want it to mean? This double rainbow signifies the harmony, balance, and beauty of what has been, what will be and what it is now. The rain brings clarity, we see ourselves in that reflection. I am harmony, I am balance I am beauty. Harmony in an Overwhelming world of Beauty and Opportunity..or H.O.B.O . Embrace your inner hobo, let go of the reins, allow space for resonance, defy contrived order. It is all chaos. What does it mean? What do you want it to mean?



When she loves him, life is scary.

Stopped at the light on Clinton River Road and Riverland, she watches a squirrel chasing another one through a yard when suddenly the first squirrel darts into the street. The second squirrel flees after the first, but an oncoming car smashes it flat. Across the street, the first squirrel stops to look for the other, but the other is gone.


walking through the world one day 
there are no black flies
and the only words out of anyone's mouth are...

You are welcome.
You are beautiful.
Have you lost some weight?
Won't you come in?
I am happy you are here.
I missed you.
I love you.
I love you still.
I love you more. 
I love you with all of my heart.
I love you more than life itself.
I am grateful to you.
I have this money for you.
You are brilliant.
I see your talent.
You are a great writer.
You are right. 
Did I mention that you are beautiful?
You glow.
I wouldn't change anything about you.
I think you are wonderful.
I am giving you what you want.
Yes, I am giving you what you want.

Good News

When I get like this, I make a list of all the good news in my life:

-My boyfriend just got a well paying, work-from-home job with benefits. This means we'll be able to meet our mortgage.

-I am nearly halfway though my final graduate semester.

-There is always a weekend to look forward to.

-My hair looks great. (Not today, but I have a perfect cut.)

-I am writing new material again.

-I submitted an application with Broward College. Since I know someone who teaches in their English Dept, I have a chance of landing an adjunct position starting in January.

Because it was once submerged

I've been working on a video poem set in the subway.

Carpeted Stairs > Tile Kitchen, Dreaming > Not



to which is language most important?

the phenomenal world,

the barely seen world,

or the unseen world?

Naming the Animals

canine priorities

one cubic yard of compost > tennis ball

As we were talking, he began to make drawings.

The story wouldn't include what happens next.
Saw my aunt & uncle today, who are CV's great aunt & great uncle, which felt quite strange to me, the fact that I made someone a great aunt. A kind of power.

Bike Ride

I imagine getting on my bike and riding until I find what I'm looking for. I find a new me, a new home, and I stay there, happy.

Dream Journal

I had one of those nights where I couldn't sleep and by that I mean: I was fighting sleep (or some combination of my head/heart wouldn't let me sleep). Too many thoughts, tears, memories, etc. You know what I mean. I know you do. There are those nights when late night aloneness with deep sadness comes. They just come.

I finally fell asleep for a few moments or maybe a few hours, and was jolted awake by these thoughts. This morning I found them written in my dream journal:

Lack of sleep becomes sacred
like an alter object
holding space for loss

JenMarie made my dream journal.
It is one of my most sacred objects.
Plus I like to stick my face in it and breath in the leather deep.

Monsieur Hot Dog, for Selah

Yup, that's him.


if I open the notebook
I might cry from the loss of it.
it is full and full.
it sits on the desk,
collecting dust and bills.
waiting for a self
that has yet to arrive.

goodbye, parakeet

the house drawn

ghosts say not of you but

one fell swoop-forgotten alphabet

(barely looked down at all)

not enough time to write waking hours

to save the self or someone loved and, too,

mother some parts through meaning

so wrote the dreams last night incoming

the writing, furious attempt to get it down

be-lasting the going becoming

cadence of a jacked-up corvette

before it slips away

guy in red shirt walking with three girls

"this is what it was like on planet earth"

forgive the shape, the shape of USA

interconnectedness one enters and leaves

enough in terms of waking

between days flash by

(there is more to life than one can know)

don't forget the important thing

how the parakeet likens itself to planes

Let’s call this the You Were Here Mashup. It scrambles notes the Greenstreets took when watching my video Parakeet draft, my own notes when watching Kate’s/(their) video Goodbye and my reaction to one of Kristen's posts on Facebook a month or so ago.


Glenda June

This here is dedicated to my friend Trey's Grandmama, one of the best talkers I ever did meet.

be it

Tucson Sunset

Almost gone.

Good-bye sun.
Hello moon.

Recalling a House Party in Cooper City

I look back on that night and laugh. Parking between an old oak and a steel-wood mailbox. Being in a fleeing black jeep that swung out too fast, taking out the mailbox ten feet from a cop. The cop's arms raised in anti-gravity disbelief.

I wasn't driving. Rather, head-spun drunk in the passenger seat. He wasn't my boyfriend, the driver. A good friend. I told him there was a keg. The party'd be broken up. The cops have nothing to do in this town of seven square rich blocks but break up wasted teenage wildness. I was afraid when he got the DUI. Back then. I had to stay with the host or face my mother, the cop said.

Adulthood crowning, I always leave this part out: Once inside, I cried. Yelled even. The few left were boys. One I loved. He didn't love me, but held back my hair as I barfed. They stung, his acts of kindness.

Instead, I always lower my eyes and smile like I just fled with cash made off a long con. I laugh a little and tell listeners I never got caught. Woke up drunk; grabbed another beer. Saying, even if I had been found out, I wouldn't take it back, being sixteen. No fucking regrets.


Treat & 21st, Mission District, SF

25th & Bryant, Mission District, SF

EL TECOLOTE • Mission District, SF

Ghost Mode @ Camp "Tecolote," Sonora, Mexico
January 2010

Map of Las Pinacates