primary palette

I like the idea of limiting the number of words in a poetry collection in the way a painter limits a palette. A vocabulary made of basic words. Words repeating, showing up in multiple poems, shifting in meaning, standing in for complex thoughts, experiences, memories. Private metaphor. Memoir in code.

A spoon, a bird, a pie, a chesterfield.


A restaurant in an airport parking garage, ornate as a gilded jewelry box. Seats one. There is no need for a maître d’. The cook stands before a single flame, hands you a dish. It’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted and you have no one to describe it to.

the dangers of parataxis

I once attended a reading that was novel/engaging. The poet read rapid-fire. All of the images were startling and my synapses fired nonstop. Later, trying to recall the poems, I felt like this raccoon trying to wash cotton candy. 

bees for lashes

I dreamt that bees surrounded me and no one would come near. I was convinced I had become their queen. I felt powerful and lonely.

It turned out, their real queen had landed on my back and they were, in fact, surrounding her.

I was merely lonely.


We used to write obituaries and submit them to the local paper. Now we post a tweet, upload a Facebook video, sepia filtered, text overlayed, guitar strumming softly in the background.

This is still love.