Next in line

Standing on line at the restaurant, suddenly I am next. It makes me feel like Friday after clocking out at work, where everything’s about to happen. And the waiter or waitress will at some point carry over my tray of food, and everything will be situated just so. There will be a rosebud in the vase on my table and I will snap a photo.


There is a certain element of death imbued in writing. All of it is a sort of last gasp. Perhaps why I oftentimes wear black. In a way I cease to exist. In the rare instances when I am noticed, then I have a willingness to vanish. Not altogether, but enuf that you won’t see me. I would like to be a fly on your wall. Maybe not a fly but a lizard, although not poisonous. Just nosy.

A Thursday

Outside it is silvery like a side of fish. Books are spread before me and coffee. Both are oxygen. I sip, trying to stay alive in this muck. My cat has had it (already), asleep at my feet. I’m trying to respond to my environment by writing this poem and then it’s off to work. I’ll have to save these Scarlatti keyboard sonatas, too, for later in the day.

Morning routine

I get up early, around 5:30, regardless of whether it’s a workday, and I’ll do some writing or I’ll do some reading, or else make some visual art. And I’ll have coffee.

I’ll also do some thinking. You know: Hmmm, how did I get into this situation? How do I get out of it?

We are all in situations to one degree or another: a job that makes us miserable; a toxic relationship; etc. My mind is fresh in the morning and more capable of tackling such things. I read better and I write better, too, ’cause I’m sharper and more alert.

But no, I am not one to wake up and bolt out the door in the morning. Anything but.

existentialist observation

Sometimes i sit on my couch and just stare out my patio door. This is quite blissful most of the time, with my mind shifting into neutral — like that feeling you get when you’re driving. My cat also is prone to staring through the door for guiltless stretches of time. It’s apparent she finds it gratifying. We’re not really expecting to see anything in particular (I feel I also can say that on behalf of my cat), it’s just that we know that’s where life is — just like when trees shift toward sunlight.

how social media and mobile devices influence my writing

i often wonder about this, particularly because i am so inclined toward short-form writing. i’m pretty sure being a twitter user has something to do with it, as well as micro-blogging and social media in general. but i think what is perhaps even more pertinent is the fact that i was bred on twitter during its early days when it was still in beta. Continue reading “how social media and mobile devices influence my writing”

Swedish Fish

Photo by Las Vegas poet/editor/literary critic Heather Lang.
I kicked my candy habit several years ago (except chocolate, of course), but I fell off the wagon yesterday due to a visually enticing candy buffet at an art/poetry event where I read some of my poetry and did live art. Some of the treats were vintage, like SweeTarts and those cute boxes of candy cigarettes. Who could resist such novelty? Not me: I flipped open a pack of Lucky Lights and indulged while chatting with a fellow poet and this woman from a local magazine.

In case you’ve never tasted them, the cigarettes are pure sugar (no duh) with a hint of winter mint. They have a blotch of red at the tip to make them appear lit. Ha. After a few of those, I dove into a plastic shot glass full of Swedish Fish, which used to be one of my biggest candy vices. I could no longer hold conversation at that point because I kept on popping them into my mouth. I mean, chewing them is no easy feat. The image of dogs comes to mind when they’re given Gummy Bears, Jujubes or sometimes peanut butter.

“Pardon me while I eat some Swedish Fish,” I wanted to say to the people I was with. And maybe even, “Look away if you wish.” You know, rhyming it, just to keep it in the spirit of the event.