Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Tofu Binge

Tofu Binge

Sometimes I'm empty

poetry consumes white space
- my literary eating disorder

Audio fluff & textual filler
with pretty graphic labels


The sun sang

- a masterpiece
in salmon and tangerine -

Spring's revielle.

The coals were cooled
by her passing.

So, Memorial day has come and gone. Summer is on us - and I don't care what the solstice says. The pools are officially open, the "on-season" has started at vacation spots. The cost of a hotel room doubled over the weekend. We're on our way to July 4th, infamously rising gas prices, sunburn, roasted marshmallows and fireworks. The kids are out of school, summer school, summer camp and the holy rollin' SVBSs start soon.

My house will soon be flooded with other people's children, and the tent will stay set up for the biggest part of the next 3 months.Everyone's birthday is coming. June is Mom, July includes mine (32 ack) Terra's (2) Tommy's (16!) and Brendon's (8) and August will turn my oldest daughter 11.

Where does time go? What a cliche question, but damn, 2005 is almost 1/2 over people!
Only 207 Shopping Days till christmas!

Monday, May 30, 2005

From the Desk of Vickie Knight

Miss Vickie wrote this for me to use as part of my press release package. Of course, I'll be using it wherever I'll need a blurb. I think she did an awesome job of encapsulating all of it into one cohesive whole. Thanks again Vickie! I'll put this to good use.

"Poetic Acceptance" by Erin Monahan is a new chapbook just released by Meetings of the Minds Publications. It is 30 pages featuring 27 poems. This volume is a "must have" for all poets.

Women are affected by a variety of events in their lives. They play a large number of roles. We are women, first. At the same time, we are wives, mothers, daughters, and friends. Our roles are not always chosen, but they are ours nonetheless. "Poetic Acceptance" gives us a look at one woman's acceptance of those roles.

While this collection of poetry offers more glimpses into the life of the author than an actual story, this mother of five shares parts of her life at its best and worst. Her poetry does a wonderful job of showcasing the various roles shared by many women. She is mother, lover, daughter and friend, all rolled up into one. Each role receives adequate attention throughout.

As a woman, we glimpse the sexuality of the young with beautiful images that transport us into her musings. Phrases like "dipped our grass-stained toes in puddles of each other" take you places you thought you had long forgotten.

As a mother, we suffer with her when she loses a child. One can only imagine the pain associated with this event. Ms. Monahan makes it easier to understand.

I believe that you chose me,
that those dozen days
were a loan I can never repay you.

We also explore her shattered faith as both a mother and a daughter that is reinforced by her loss:

With his own words, I find him
guilty -
murder one
of an innocent infant,

Never one to dwell on a topic for long, Ms. Monahan will have you smiling one minute and crying the next. Simple events take on special meaning when seen through the eyes of the author. Take a trip to the flea market or out to your backyard. In the company of Ms. Monahan, you're sure to experience something new.

This "must have" collection comes in professional quality high-gloss covers with beautiful artwork for just $10. Order yours today:


Pesky Typos

Well, thanks to Erin and her excellent eye, I think I know why 9 people said they ordered, and only 4 orders went to my publisher. Apparently, when my publisher set up her paypal preferences, she put one email address for the paypal orders, and another for the credit card sales.

If the email you recieved as a receipt of purchase includes this email address:
then there will be absolutely no problem.
If however it says
then PLEASE let me know. There's a typo in the email address which is stopping the order notification from going through to Shaela, and she doesn't know you ordered.

I've notified her to let her know the problem, and hopefully she can pull up a list of verified orders and get around this glitch, and I'm sure she'll fix the typo in the address asap. Please bear with me on this, I apologize to those of you that will experience a delay in shipping time.


Issue resolved. All orders are being processed and shipped - the email typo has been corrected and all further orders will be no problem.

I did manage to get a copy of the order log though. LOL, there really are only 4 orders!

Sunday, May 29, 2005

Optimism at its Finest.

I have been lied to. I've known it for a couple of days. But in the first 2 days after my chap was released I had 9 people tell me they ordered one, but there were actually only 4 orders. I don't know why someone would say they did if they didn't - I mean, why not just shut up and say nothing? Anyway, I've decided as much as I want to sell this thing, and I DO want to sell the hound out of this thing, I'm just going to do my own thing and sell them myself, through other venues than this and not worry about who does or doesn't order one through here.

I'll find out once every three months anyway, so wondering isn't a necessary thing.
So, note to self:
stop obsessing, what should happen, will.

I think I've been stressing out about this more than I like to admit. I mean my rational mind can say that if I don't sell a fucking one, it doesn't actually HURT me, you know, I haven't spent a penny. Any that I do sell, even if it's just that 4 I knew about on Day 3, well, that's a few bucks I didn't have before.

I just want so badly to succeed! Part of me knows that if nothing else, I'll be disappointed in myself if this fails miserably. As much a positive response as I've had to actually getting a chapbook published... I don't want to lose that momentum in the negative response to failure.

And here I am, predicting my own failure, or at least mentally preparing for it, less than a week into this process. *sigh*
I swear I'm an optimist - just not when in relation to myself!

Music Meme #Last!

1. The person who passed the baton to you?
Jenni, of Jenni and Jack fame. By far the blogger to teach me the most about contemporary poetry and all things related. She rules, and only because she is so wonderful am I giving in to yet another meme. This is my last by golly. They reming me of email forwards lol.

2. Total volume of music files on your computer.
On mine? zero, because I have no burner on my pc. Scotty's PC does, so he downloads and burns CDs for me. HIS pc has 955MB of music files, something like 200 songs.

3. The title and artist of the last CD you bought.
We are such horrible piraters, we don't buy many, unless of course you include the blank ones we burn to... Let's see the last one I remember buying was Nickleback.

4. Song playing at the moment of writing.
Call me a geek, but I'm not listening to music right now - with 5 kids running around the house, it gets too damn hectic. I turn it on sometimes after they go to bed. But, I WAS listening to Metallica after dinner.

I'm passing to Laura, and Mike (because they both called safe like smart asses last time) and James.

Saturday, May 28, 2005

The Nile

The Nile

It seems my eyes are rivers, endless
and sun swept. Here - impossibly pure
and banked by sand,
is haven.

Limbs float, tentatively tied to
trunks deserted to new generations.
Half hidden, I am
the crocodile.

Yet, in the sifted silt
submerged, I am painted
a disarming shade of jade.


These two pieces are related, same subject matter written very recently. Not sure whether to make them a sequence or keep them seperate...

Abandon the Young

I have collected secrets, pressed
and carried them, next to my skin
to the twisted shade of the acacia.

There I pulled them,
mewling and toothy
from my breast - kissed
and left them, to die.

Abandoned, once seen
but only by lovers in the safety of
whispered midnight, they withered
in the arid desert grass,

for the Serengeti sun frowns
on the frail, burns the vulnerable,
and finds not grief, but promise
in death.

Savannah Moon

They have been suckled
at the breast of want,
for the instinct to offer more
has been forsaken.

Craving in the shadows, thorn-bitten
and ragged - they were chewed
by nights spent
in the jagged maw of a savannah moon.

Their brittle bones crack
under the weight of my desertion
and I leave them to find rebirth
in the marrow of the morning sun.

Friday, May 27, 2005


On one of the poetry forums I frequent, it seems like everyone is writing of death and it's eating me alive.

There is one about the funeral of the writer's mother - and the little details that were so overpoweringly important at the time. It mentions, in a way that lends it great impact, that the funeral director told her not to bring shoes. That one line was a like a sledgehammer between the eyes. When I buried Alexis, they told me not to bring a diaper, she wouldn't need one. What mother lays her child down with no diaper on?
I took one anyway, and the funeral director seemed to know that it was important to me, because the day of the viewing, she had it on.
But her shoes... little patent-leather Mary Janes, she was so swollen that they wouldn't fit her feet. She was 12 days old, wearing make-up. She had the most beautiful head of down-soft black hair. In the hospital I'd sit and just run my fingers through her hair and talk to her - in the casket, it was stiff-sticky with hairspray. And I kept thinking, she's 12 days old, why the hell would they put hairspray in her hair!?

The poem mentions how she placed a Rosary in her mothers hands, and I shivered at the memory of putting a gold bracelet on Alexis' wrist at the viewing, how cold and stiff and unbending her little arm was. How horrified I was to feel my child that way, and how important it was that she have this bracelet on. It was engraved with her name, like writing your child's name on the inside of her coat, in case she ever got lost someone would at least know her name. Alexis had her name on her wrist, engraved in gold because the tag of her pink frilly dress would eventually rot away. I had lost her, and wanted someone to know her name if they ever found her.

It has to be done - but why - If someone finds her, will they bring her back to me?

And nearly four years later, I sit here crying still, remembering how insane that thought process sounded even in my own head, even then, and not caring because it was so damned important.
That poem was the best thing I've read in a long time, because I felt it, but the worst thing I've read too, for the same reason.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

Time to Move?

I don't have it in me today to deal with the non-spelling, can't-punctuate, don't-know-nuthin-bout-grammar crowd today. And today, they're everywhere.

Here in NC in the last few days or so, we've returned to the hayday of the KKK I guess. Three 7ft crosses were burned in Durham last night. Ridiculous.

Or maybe to the days before the concept of religious freedom sunk in. We're the proud homeplace of a church whose sign reads "The Koran Needs to Be Flushed" because the preacher believes that his way is the only way. I don't suppose anyone's too surprised that it's a Southern Baptist church.

I think that the idiots with the crosses should have taken the remainder of their Kerosene to that church sign. But that would be intolerant of me wouldn't it? The whole of it leaves me with a bad aftertaste and the urge to pretend I live elsewhere.

Poetry Readings

So, open mic nights, poetry readings, book signings and self-promotion seem to loom large in my future. With that in mind I went on an internet search for local venues that would be receptive to my style of poetry. That means that the poetry slams are obviously out of the question, I am not a slam artist. It also means that one of the few I found - an african american venue that celebrates their heritage and flavor wouldn't quite be appropriate for me. I don't rap, my poetry hasn't ever addressed any african american issues (human issues, yes, but none that were specifically african american) and my pseudo jamaican accent is really lousy.

However, I did find several that looked promising, if I can manage to squeak my odd schedule around enough to be free and get the kids taken care of and such. I figure I stand a chance, since they're late in the evening. The most interesting was in the Barnes and Noble at the Arboretum on the first Tuesday of each month. I'd want to attend one to see what it's like first, before I actually read anything.

Another thing that bothers me is the length of my poems. From what I can tell, most readings have a 3 minute limit, my poems, many of them, would take all of 30 seconds to read, twice. So what do I do? Do I read a couple different poems that are all related - or on the same subject?

Sheesh, I should get out every once in a while you know it?

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Legalities, autographs and fear, oh my!

I have some questions about my chapbook stuff. I need to email my publisher.

I wish there were some way to know how many books are sold. I mean, first, I'm chronically nosey, and impatient.
Second - I'm a firm believer in CYA (cover your ass)

The contract doesn't mention how much it cost to publish this thing, and I think that amount has to be paid before I start getting my cut. I need to find out exactly how that works.
So, I have never in my life been asked for an autograph, and I almost feel silly to say that I've been asked twice today! I'm seriously not a celebrity people, it's JUST a chapbook. But I won't deny that it's kind of cool to think a stranger would want to meet me and actually ask for my autograph.

In one of those conversations, the person mentioned readings and signings. I am so petrified of reading or speaking to crowds. I don't know how I'll ever get on stage! And hell, I have only been able to find one open mic around here in the year I've been wanting to go to one (to watch-not read!)

What have I gotten myself into?!

Legalities, autographs and fear, oh my!

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

Order my poetry Chapbook! (please?)

It's Tuesday - and what a fine day it is! I received my 10 copies of Poetic Acceptance today, and also found out that the order link is up now! They're really beautiful, people, and yes I know I'm supposed to say that, but I'd say it if it we someone else's chapbook too. Shaela went with the most expensive high-gloss paper she could get, so it's not only beautiful, it's shiny. I am SO happy with the finished project!

It's $10.00, and there isn't any shipping and handling charge, which amazes me, and makes me happy. And thank you in advance to all of you who order because I know that none of my 'circle of friends' is able to throw money around - so the support means that much more to me!

I'm so happy I don't even know what to say here, and when the hell have any of you ever known me to be speechless? Well, except when I'm in Finchy's blog of course!

Jeez, I thought I felt good yesterday!?

My first Meme

SheWeevil has tagged me for this meme - it's my first ever. I think this means I've been initiated into the blogosphere, right? Wow, now I'm a citizen, so long as my accent isn't held against me ;)

So here's the thing, the Movie Meme:

Total Number of Videos/DVDs owned:
Well now, that's a tricky question, I have about 30 videos of the recorded off the kids' channels type. Barney, god help me, a lot of them are Barney. We have about 30 that are real live store bought legal VHS movies, including the boxed set of Indiana Jones (don't ask!) And then there is a our still small DVD collection, only about 10 of them.

Last film I bought:
Actually we bought three that night, Gothika, Dreamcatcher, and Barbershop.

The last film I watched:
Hmmm, I guess it was Dead Presidents. It came on TV the other night, unless you mean recorded movie, in which case it was probably Barbershop 1 & 2, which for the record are hysterically funny.

That was fairly painless now wasn't it? Now, here we go to find the 5 unlucky souls I'll be tagging ;)

Monday, May 23, 2005

Confidence and Peace of Mind

You know, I've been writing for years. Most of us have, especially if we include our teenage angst ridden years plagued by cathartic rubbish. And I know that I can look back, even as recently as a few months ago, and see that my writing style has changed, that my voice has changed. I feel a bit like I'm going through some poetic form of puberty - my voice is deepening, beginning to feel more valid, stronger and more confident.

I figure this is true for all writers. That we all go through periods of growth that are inspired by one thing or another. Like Finch - did she always write like that?(Huh huh Jen didja!?) And that's the cool thing about the growth - it doesn't just change how you write, but it has changed, for me, how I read, what I can read and feel comfortable saying, hey, I 'get' this.

Finchy, if I haven't told you lately, your poetry rips my guts out - and I mean that absolutely in the best way. I've read your blog SO much lately and just been left speachless, and feeling like you've danced around the maypole, braiding my entrails.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, 101 cool things about poetic growth...

I can write something with depth and meaning, and feel comfortable enough in it that I can defend it, better yet, to no longer feel the NEED to defend it, in so much less time. I have written 2 lately, both posted here, that took me no more than 20 minutes on the first draft, which is pretty close to the "final" draft.

The depth comes more easily now, I remember spending days upon days with certain pieces, that at the time felt so deep, and looking back, they're shallow and poorly crafted - and I think, God, what a waste of a week! Which isn't quite true, because the struggle through the older pieces is definitely partially responsible for where I am now.

So what's my point here? I don't know really, just that I'm so happy with where I find myself creatively lately. I'm in a good, productive place. And it feels so good!

Sunday, May 22, 2005

My Chapbook is READY!

My Chapbook is officially done and ready. I'll have ten copies by Tuesday, and the order page will be ready by then as well. Until then, I'll have to be patient, which is not what I'm good at.
She set the selling price, which is $10.00+s&h. It's a collection of 27 poems, a total of 36 pages. Staple bound with high quality paper and beautiful cover art! I cannot even BEGIN to describe the size of my smile right now!

I'm hoping to sell the hound out of these, not only for Shaela, since she's a non-profit organization, she needs her 50% to be able to keep doing this, but for me too. I think it will do a few things for me. First of all, it will give me an idea how big my fan base actually is, and how far it extends beyond MTC.
Secondly, it will force me to come out of this hermit shell I live in, because in order to sell the ones I'll get, I'll have to go to readings and such, and sell itmyself. The idea of reading in front of a crowd is terrifying to me!
And of course, I get half the sales as well, so it will be a contribution of some sort to my sadly (impossibly) small budget. Trust me, as much as I'd like to deny it, right now, this HAS to be about the money, because I need it so desperately!

I'll be glad when the page is ready and I can actually start selling! I'm so so so unbelievably excited!

Saturday, May 21, 2005

You Woke Me, Fragmental

I felt sexy last night;
it has been too long.

Misty, in a swirl of fog,
you overtook my dreams.

Your eyes, dark with midnight,
flashed lightning across indigo skies.

You woke me, fragmental.

I found your lips
on the tops of mountains
your hands in the valley,
tongue laughing on the river bank,

and with palms held open, gentle,
I offered to gather you
as the leaves of the lily
collect the rain.

Poetry - Chapbooks, blogs - and secrets

So, I have this chapbook coming out right? I'm so proud of it, and I have told my mother that it isn't going to be published after all.She'd want to see it, read it, ask questions about the content and meaning of too many poems. I am not ready or able at this point to explain certain things to her. I'm hoping she isn't home when they arrive, I feel badly enough about lying to her, I don't want to be faced with, "Oh is that your chapbook!? I thought it wasn't being published!? Let me see it!"

It makes me sad to have to hide one of my proudest moments from my mother.

I have been linked! so that's cool, more traffic, more exposure - and it's local people for the most part that will be coming here from there, so this is a good thing.

Do you realize how many poetry blogs there are out there? Good god we're taking over the blogosphere! The sad part is that so many of them are teenagers who don't actually use words.
You know what I mean, it's a whole new damn language. My kids type in it and it drives me crazy. I'm getting old I suppose - and if it means I think people should take the time and energy to write out whole words and sentences, so be it.

So there's my addition for today. Lame huh? Just a few current snippets of thought.

Friday, May 20, 2005

Being a Concerned Stranger

So I'm not a big TV watcher. I watch Lost on Wednesdays, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition on most Sundays, and that's about it. But the other night I watched a show about teens who have been abducted, abused, raped, etc... by people who found their personal information online through things like their blog profiles.

Tonight, mindlessly bored, I decided to spend some time reading random blogs, and ran across a blog owned by a teenaged highschool girl. She gave her full name, the name of her town and state, her highschool, and other information about her town. It was a small town and an unusual last name.

I decided to test the television program's validity. I went to whitepages.com, entered her last name, town and state. There was only one entry with that last name, it had to be her. So then I sit there, staring at the screen, cell phone in hand, wondering if I should call the number and warn her parents! I didn't, I made a comment on her blog, in hopes that she'll take my advice and remove some info. But I'm worried for her. I'm a parent, I have a kid in highschool - and I could just picture those stories on the show. . .

Sublime Randomocity

This is what I read this morning. I found it completely by accident:

The Law of Karma is quite mathematical in its precision - we are always receiving exactly what we deserve.

Who You Are Is The Sum Total Of Where You Have Been
Now I don't think I really believe in reincarnation, though I can't discount it with any more conviction than I can discredit Christianity, but were I to be forced to choose which I believed in more strongly, I'd have to say I put more stock in reincarnation than in the all-powerful omniscient God.

It makes sense, to believe that we earn what we get and where we go, whether it's applied to just this life, or into others both past and future. I mean, even Christians believe (preach) the Golden Rule, and most everyone believes the adage that says, "What goes around comes around."

Hell, the Christians can't even really argue with the idea of Karma, the way I see it. If Karma works on the principle that you must give in order to receive, and there is some mathematical equation to it, what difference is there between Karma and the idea of the tithing 10% that the Christians adhere to so faithfully?

What bothers me about this whole discussion is that my arguments seem to be aligning me more closely with some of the Christian beliefs than I like to see, which sits like a rock in my gut and burns at my throat a bad case of reflux.

Thursday, May 19, 2005

Evolution and Speed Week

It's been pointed out to me lately that poetry I've been posting lately isn't really "my style" but you know, I like that. I realized a while back that my style was changing, growing. It became a joke that I was evolving. At that point I was resisting it, unhappy with the fact that I didn't feel comfortable with what I'd write. It's difficult to judge your own poetry anyway, objectivity is tough to come by some days, but when you look at your own work and don't recognize it, don't know anything about that style, it's all but impossible to say whether it's good, or it's garbage.

Lately, I've become more comfortable with what I write, more at home in the new style, more familiar with the way I say what's begging to be written. And what's great is that for the most part, I'm really happy with it.

In other news, there's a NASCAR race at Lowe's Motor Speedway next weekend, and next week is Speed Week. This means lots of race fans, including my husband, will have the opportunity to go uptown and meet some drivers, see some cars, get stuff - and those of us who are married to NASCAR fans have the opportunity to take Charlotte up on its offer to entertain the not-so-race-fans group. There are 3 consecutive nights of free live concerts, including Crossfade, 3 Doors Down, 38 Special, Styx, and lots more. Live and Free, seems like a deal! I can't go all 3 nights, I'm too old for long weekends, but I'll be in the audience next Thursday when Crossfade is on stage!

As for the race itself, well, I've been to Lowe's a time or two and really enjoyed myself. I prefer to be infield, on Redneck Hill, where the fun really is, where other fans offer you a beer and a burger, or a seat on their camper cuz it's got the best view of the backstretch. If you've never been you should go, seriously. I'm not a die-hard fan, I don't ache to be at every race, but I'll never regret going! There's something in the air (aside from the smell of vast amounts of Budweiser, grilled meat, sweat and racing fuel) that can't be matched at any other kind of event!

Wednesday, May 18, 2005

The Storm Recedes

The Storm Recedes

The storm recedes, explores me
with gentle tendrils in my hair -
at my neck, like lover's hands
in the after-time, sleepy.

Moisture rises from where I lay,
evidence of her passion. Spent,
I smile in her wake.

The lilacs have paid witness,
rubbed their knobby fingers
against one another -
set their scent free.

There I sleep, woven
into the fragrance, secure
from an infatuated breeze.

Monday, May 16, 2005

Nothing to say about death

Sometimes there's just nothing to be said, and I think it's better to stay in the empathetic silence, knowing, than to ruin it with platitudes. For me they cheapen it, make it feel trite, less real - as if it can be addressed with words at all, let alone those thrown around by sympathetic strangers, like alka-seltzer to the gulls. Just something to take in, try to ingest, never finding any satisfaction or comfort from the hunger - just building, building, building pressure .

How many times I have wished I could just explode in a bloody mass of feathers and bloated entrails, be strewn across the sand in a gory mess so that my outward appearance could finally match the inside one. But I will never be baked into the earth, washed by the surf, or be done with it.

Knowing that, I can't allow myself to satisfy the need to say, "I know how you feel" because I know that I don't. Hell, even Scott doesn't fully comprehend how I feel. How can anyone else? or "It gets better." because I'm not so sure that it really does, you just learn to ignore it, or forget about it. Or "I'm sorry." What does that mean anyway? Nothing really, in the grand scheme of loss.

So, I respectfully say, "Nothing."


Ever written something and gone back years later and reread it? I do it to torture myself sometimes. I try to revisit old poetry every once in a while to remind myself of what not to do. I almost always hate every word I ever wrote. I tease that my poems are like my kids, and I refer to them as my bastard children who remind me of my mistakes. They embarrass me in public, like only a child can do. So today, I went back to Meeting of the Minds, to the issue I was included in, and read my biography today. I didn't hate it. I was surprised. It isn't exactly the most professional bio, but it didn't totally suck. So I'm posting it here, for its possible amusement qualities.

My name is Erin Monahan: mother of 5 who hails from North Carolina. At the age of 31, I've been writing for many years, though only recently have I taken it seriously and realized the value of poetry as art. With this realization came the desire to learn, to improve - to grow. I'd like to think I've managed that, though I hope I'll never stop.

I've come to appreciate well thought out criticism, and its tendency to teach the critic as much as the critiqued. I am an imagery addict, and am trying to discover colors other than pastels. I am addicted to proper punctuation, just one of my psychoses. I want to be more progressive in my style, deeper in my message, and more effective with my speech.

I've never been published in print (they say one must submit to accomplish this feat) but have found great satisfaction in online poetry communities and publication in online poetry Ezines. Perhaps some day I'll believe I've grown enough to risk success. Until then, I'll be content with the satisfaction of the creative processes of my art.

Saturday, May 14, 2005


I don't know how women do it. I mean, I'm all for stay at home Moms, being there for the kids and all. But I don't know how people survive doing it long term. I've been at home for a little over a year now, and it's just time to get a job. There's just too much time for me to think when I'm not working, and in the last 2 months it has all become too much. It's like all the thoughts and worries and psychoses take over and I start to cannibalize myself. I chew away at my past and my present and my fears start to overwhelm me and they pile up and pile up until there's nothing left. I'm sinking into some weird self-imposed vortex that sucks out the air and the light and the sound and leaves this frightening, hungry darkness. It's a glutton, and I feed myself to it daily in little spoonfuls.

And the worst part is that I know I'm doing it. It isn't like I'm just off my rocker and being self-destructive without being cognizant of it. So I have a choice, get a job or get a therapist. Considering I need $400 in the next two weeks, I'm thinking the job is just more practical.

Damn I hate starting a new job.


Posted by Hello

Friday, May 13, 2005

Pre Orders

Just talked to Shaela again, she sure isn't afraid of long distance. She must have some kind of kick-ass calling plan or something. Anyway, she's in the middle of editing the proof, says I should be able to start taking pre-orders any day now! I'll add the link as soon as I know my page is up, which will probably be tomorrow. I would like you all to buy, oh, I dunno, ten copies each? Haha just kidding. Five each will be fine.

My Chapbook Cover!

Posted by Hello
My Chapbook Cover! It's a bit crooked, but I think that's just the way it was scanned in. This isn't the layout I did, but that's ok. Apparently my file turned out blurry and pixelated when resized to make the cover.


I've started perusing NC Blogs - it's cool to find people in my area, especially the ones that write. Met a guy named Ron a few days ago through his blog. A seriously inspiring guy, one who loves the bible thumpers as much as I do. Not at all.

I don't know what people did before the internet, living in closed little worlds where your horizons were so limited! I have met so many amazing people via the WWW that I'd have never known existed without it. Makes me sad to know how many friends I wouldn't have.

I wish I could travel. Hop a plane to some far away place, Ireland, Australia, friggin Zimbabwe, live and learn, and learn. There is so much out there people! And most of it, I'll never even know I don't know! How horrible is that!?

I still don't know what my chapbook looks like! I mean I do, but I haven't seen it yet. It's enough to drive me insane!

Here's today's very disjointed surreal, inaccessible, obscurely metaphored free write. Enjoy.


You writhe in my stomach,
the cramp of forgotten promise.
Unkept, you drain away, fade -
a diluted stain in my head.

You have become an unmentionable,
and yet your name still swirls in my ear.

Thursday, May 12, 2005

Someone Else's Loss

Someone Else's Loss

Love makes bitches of us all,
in the fading light of afternoon when

the shadows of trees fall across our faces
like hazy bars in a prison of sentiment.

Blurry perhaps, though solidly
binding, they bend us --

into forced submission
to the will of an uncaring other.

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

Unexpected Phone Calls

Shaela called me earlier - she got the first copy of my chap in today. That means we're so close to actually getting it out that I can taste it! She says the cover is gorgeous, which tickles me, since I chose the cover art and laid out the title and by line on it. She did say she'll have to correct a problem with the layout or mock up or whatever before it actually gets printed, but it wasn't scheduled to come out for another 3 weeks almost, so I can deal with that.

She said she'd scan the cover and add it to the webpage, but I haven't found it yet, so either she hasn't done it yet, or I'm looking in the wrong place. I'm probably just too damned excited again and looking in the wrong place for it. Patience isn't one of my strengths anyway.

So, soon, very very soon, I'll add the link to where you guys can buy a copy of my first chap.
And my kids still think I'm now a famous writer, they have told all of their friends and teachers.
I'm wondering how many will want a copy of it, and will be blushing at the couple of erotic pieces that were included.

I think even Scotty is a little impressed, not that he'd come out and tell me he's proud of me.
I'm proud of me though, and ready to have a copy IN MY HAND!

Out of Meds?

If laughter is truly the best medicine, then I strongly suggest you self-medicate yourself at
big-boys.com. I've either just cured myself of any ailments, or wasted the funniest 2 hours of my life. Either way, these are some of the most hysterical movies I've ever seen!

There are a couple that aren't kid (or work) friendly, but you'll recognize them by the description.

Here's one of my favorites, in case you don't want to go sift through them all. Oh and here is my second favorite. This one had me laughing so hard my mother came up from the other side of the house to see what I was laughing so hysterically about - considering I was the only one out here. . .

Both of these are fully dressed, good clean fun.

Reluctant Millionaire

Reluctant Millionaire
That was the headline.

I'm sitting here watching Headline News and they have a story about a man who lives with no electricity, no phone service (though he recently got himself a cell phone) and a generator to run his air conditioning - 32 years (as long as I've been alive!) this guy has happily lived like this - in the boonies of Florida. Now the state forced him to sell his land for a nature preserve or some such thing. He fought it for years - loved his place in the 'country' that he built himself ("I went into Miami to get the tin for the roof." he said) and didn't want to leave it.

Said he was staying till the last possible moment. They gave him $4.95 million for this plot of lush nature. And he begged them on the news to take it back and give him his land back. How many of us would do that? Not many I think - we've spent too much time in the city being spoiled with cable and electricity and internet and telephones. All the damn wrong things matter to us.

No way I'd want to live without my creature comforts, trust me, I'm VERY addicted to electricity and internet thanks, but it sure would be nice to say some material thing meant so much to me that I'd give up a sudden 5 million dollar windfall for it.

He was what I call a 'woolybooger' - long hair, fuzzy beard - lovable, not the scary type, laughed a lot, seemed truly happy with how he'd spent the last 32 years. He said, "32 years shot to hell (hahahaha) thirty two years, shot to hell (more strangely sad laughter.)" He was what we'd all consider a social outcast, and oddly enough, I find myself wishing I were more like him - because right now, all I can think of are all the things I'd give up for a fraction of 5 mill.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005


I have been accused of a frightful crime
the crime of avoidance - wrongly so,

for though I avoid, it's not you,
but myself I try to escape. I fear

the words that will fall from my mouth
like so much loose change into the sofa

I have no desire to jingle useless
and forgotten in a padded sarcophagus

Every Weekend

I spend every weekend clicking "get mail" 1000 times, thinking that surely I'll hear from JAW on a weekend day, since he has a real job to work - then again I think I recall V saying he works a bajillion hours a week at several different jobs and projects and charities other than the magazine itself. I am just not a patient person, and I've waited nearly 2 months now. It comes and goes though, the impatience. And I figure if I only spend 2 days a week tweaking my road runner mail account out with repeated checkings, it's better than in the beginning when I was doing it 7 days a week.

My chapbook will be released in a couple of weeks, I would have liked to have added JAW to the credits, but I couldn't, obviously. I'm still looking forward to Ploughshares opening for reading again. I need to go recheck that date, but I know they're closed for poetry right now.

I pity the poetry editors at major magazines. Lousy poetry is so much more common than anything worthwhile - and the poor writers tend to be the most obnoxious about submitting. They simply don't know any better. I bet the job of poetry editor is mind numbing and tedious. I can't imagine doing it for a living. I'd think it would kill my love of poetry. It would be like reading a poetry.com anthology every day and finding (maybe) that one nugget a week that was worth my time.

I'd be the hateful rotten poetry editor sending out sarcastic rejection letters. I'm actually looking forward to getting my first snail mail rejection letter. I haven't submitted much in the way of print publications, and have basically been solicited for everything I've had done in print - so I've never gotten an "official" rejection. I hope it's from a rotten sarcastic poetry editor...


I don't know who founded the project or how long it's been going. I think I'll send a postcard though.



Gardenia hangs in the air tonight, heavy
and humid - a spicy reminder of motherhood -

undeniably feminine. And though the hibiscus
wonders, open-faced, I have no answers,

only teeming mounds of questions, like drones
that tunnel away at the tender roots of tomorrow.

Monday, May 9, 2005

Thirty-two and . . . proud?

There comes a time in life that you just have to do it, accept - accept who you are, or who you've become, you know? I look at myself in the mirror and it scares me, The last year has apparently just not been kind to me physically. Ma warned me what happened after you turn 30, but sheesh! And I've been having this thought for a couple of months, inspecting the crows feet at the corners of my eyes, or that thing your stomach does when it's just enough out of shape to look bad in a short shirt, but not so bad that you head for the moomoo section at Wal-Mart. My rump too, but we won't go there. It's just that those last two mentioned areas used to be the two places I considered to be my best attributes. I no longer consider them that.

But, I also figure that at 32, if I finally stop getting carded for cigarettes, or hit on by teen-age boys, it isn't necessarily a bad thing right? I'm a little less likely to flaunt what I've got in the light of day, and I doubt I'll be prancing in a bikini this summer, like I was last year.

I am getting older, and it shows, and I may as well just face it, right? It's not like I'm Cher. I can't have the offending areas sucked out, tucked, re-stuffed or relocated, and I wouldn't if I could. (would I?) So I've been very resistant to adding any new pictures to anything - the ones I use are all at least 6 years old. I suppose I should throw some make-up on and smile and say cheese. Because there comes a time in life that you just have to do it, accept - accept who you are, or who you've become, you know?


I must be on the "heavy rotation schedule" for the "next blog" function. My stats are through the roof today!

*hi all!*

Sunday, May 8, 2005

I Still Can

I have discovered another contemporary I like very very much!

Making a Fist

by Naomi Shihab Nye

For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,
I felt the life sliding out of me,
a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.
I was seven, I lay in the car
watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.
My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.

"How do you know if you are going to die?"
I begged my mother.
We had been traveling for days.
With strange confidence she answered,
"When you can no longer make a fist."

Years later I smile to think of that journey,
the borders we must cross separately,
stamped with our unanswerable woes.
I who did not die, who am still living,
still lying in the backseat behind all my questions,
clenching and opening one small hand.

The Rider
by Naomi Shihab Nye

A boy told me
If he roller-skated fast enough
His loneliness couldn't catch up to him,
The best reason I ever heard
For trying to be a champion.
What I wonder tonight
Pedaling hard down King William Street
It if it translates to bicycles.
A victory! To leave behind your loneliness
Panting behind you on some street corner
While you float free into a cloud of sudden azaleas,
No matter how slowly they fell.

OK People

It's Mother's Day and because you love me you will go see my newest most favorite blog in the world.

It's the Eggbert blog, and it's run by the mother of two little boys. They have made little egg people, and they have little adventures and we get to see pics. It sounds silly, it IS silly, but I made a comment the other day and the mother emailed me with how much it thrilled the little boys to get a comment on their blog.

So please please please! Go visit their blog and make a comment for these boys!

Mother's Day!

Everyone gave me my Mother's Day gifts today. No one here is very good at keeping secrets, lol. Anyway, I got some good stuff! Scotty fixed my kitchen sink and bought me a new faucet - I know it doesn't sound like much, but it IS. When we moved in here 3 years ago, the sprayer had a hole in the hose, so we had to disconnect it, or it shot a constant stream of water at you as long as the water was on. So, 3 yrs w/o a sprayer. You don't know how handy they are until you can't use it! Then a good while back, the faucet developed a leak, and dripped some. Then it dripped more. Then it started REALLY dripping. Sometimes if you got the faucet and handle in just the right combined positions, it would stop, but here lately, we were up to a constant stream (ecologically unsound, and expensive to leave your water running all the time) and so, a new functioning faucet with no drips AND a working sprayer! Wooooo hoooooooo!! The bad news is that Scotty also decided to climb under the house and see if we could figure out why the sink doesn't drain right, and he discovered that when the landlord put the house on city sewer, his plumber used PVC pipe from the sink to the main out-line, and the main out-line is cast iron. I don't understand exactly what's what under there, but something about connecting from plastic to metal doesn't work, and there's something broken.

The old bastard will just LOVE that.

So, my other present is... a Gardenia bush! I loooove Gardenias! They smell so good! And the bush has been trimmed and trained to look more like a tree, and it's gorgeous and it smells good and it's gonne be YUMMY in my garden. And cards, of course I have cards - and I know the kids made stuff for me at school so I'll get woken up in the morning with coffee and more stuff :)

Now I'm going to bed, so I won't be bitchy when they wake me up lol.

Saturday, May 7, 2005


I am bored to tears, bored and completely unmotivated. I have written 2 crappy poems today, and that's about it. I'm sleepy, Considering that for the last several nights I've been in bed well before midnight, I shouldn't be sleepy at all.

My kittens are finally fully weaned, and I will be putting out the sign just any day now. But they're so damned cute, I can't stand to think about getting rid of them. I need to get personal and see what gender the two black ones are - the siamese looking one is male, and he's staying.

Sissy (the dog) will have puppies soon. I have this strange urge with my animals to sit with them as they birth, as if they can't handle it without me? Anyway, Once the pups are old enough, we're getting rid of Sissy and all the pups except one male. Enough puppies already! Same thing with the cats, all gone except for the little Siamese. Well that's the plan anyway...

So I've been watching cartoons - think I'll get back to it.

Cathartic: purgative


I steel myself with beams of moonlight
that no longer skim metallic in base-relief
on the bark of the lover-tree.

Useless, they fall with a clamor
into shade a decade old.
This is a place marked indelibly

by the crossing of lovers where dust hides
how you made me envy my name on your lips.


There is no time for the gentle
arc of falling meteors, or caress
of the soft breeze. We have passed

into summer, hot and glaring
where sweat beads on the brow
and between breasts, where lips

once sipped. Granite tongues jut
into the future, tearing away
the soles of shoes too long worn.

Yeah. Not my greatest freewrite eh? It's been too long since the last time I held to my 30 minute free-write exercise. It shows. Christ - look at the gerunds. Not one word! It's a free write damn it. I doubt I'll ever revise it either, I see nothing to merit the effort.

binge purge binge purge.

Thursday, May 5, 2005


Time has a way of eating at everything, like a seaside breeze - calm and gentle, fluttering through the wings of kites over the sand - so innocuous, you know? You forget it's corrosive and the rust and rot sneaks up on you until you wake up one morning and the deck's collapsing and the ships sinking, and all that's left is old rotted driftwood littering the beach front.

Sometimes it's not so bad - you know, time heals all wounds or whatever - and it does, eventually, because it eats away at the memories, and when you can't remember how they felt in your arms, you can't miss them so much. When you can't remember the knot in your gut and how you couldn't breath, you forget to feel the pain of it.

The wind blows and keeps blowing so constant that it builds dunes of leaves and fallen petals and school report cards and grocery lists and appointment cards inside your chest, the void doesn't seem so big and overwhelming - it all absorbs the sound of your tears and they don't echo back to you anymore. And for a while you stand and wait for it, but eventually you move on and forget to cry because time has a way at eating away at everything.

And one glorious night in the middle of a thunderstorm or a meteor shower or football game or hand of Gin Rummy you feel like a queen - like you're the one gift that other person has always wanted and whenever you walk in the room they get it, over and over again. But what seems like the next day you wake up and realize you've become that pair of fuzzy slippers, the ones they still love but wouldn't necessarily be able to say what color they are. Comfortable and predictably there, but basically unnoticed and taken for granted. Because time has a way of eating away at everything.


Did you guys know that May is officially Masturbation Month? Yeah check it out at Libida.com.

Is there seriously a holiday or celebration for EVERYTHING?

Can't we just go back to pleasuring ourselves in the privacy of shower or bedroom without having to announce it and celebrate it and build fund raisers around it?


OK seriously, I think this is just about the funniest holiday ever.


on Entry: Trapped

I Am Vertical

These are the words I wish I could write -where even death is beautiful- this is the poem, more than any other, that I wish were mine.

I Am Vertical

But I would rather be horizontal.
I am not a tree with my root in the soil
Sucking up minerals and motherly love
So that each March I may gleam into leaf,
Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed
Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,
Unknowing I must soon unpetal.
Compared with me, a tree is immortal
And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,
And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.

Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,
The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping
I must most perfectly resemble them --
Thoughts gone dim.
It is more natural to me, lying down.
Then the sky and I are in open conversation,
And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.

Sylvia Plath
-March 28, 1961

Wednesday, May 4, 2005

Bukowski wasn't Pretty

You know it's kind of funny. I hated Bukowski when I first read him. My first thought was to how ugly his poems were - how brutally real and honest. He wrote of rape and smashing spiders into oblivion and of drinking too much and hating poets. I recall making a comment somewhere, possibly here, that you'd think, considering his childhood, his physical scars and afflictions - that he'd have written about beautiful things and escaped into his self-made fantasy.

What a complete crock that was. That, dear readers, is what I do. I write pretty words and allow myself to either sink into them, or to lose myself in beating the hell out of them. But then I am no Bukowski, and would simply never get away with writing poetry about raping women or drinking till I puked all over myself, now would I?

But on the other hand, I wonder what a hypocrit I am after the last post I made about making excuses for reality. I don't deal with it, I don't excuse it, I just paint it pretty.



I read this poem today on one of the boards I frequent. It was all fuzzy bunnies, rainbows and silver linings and it took everything in me not to post a reply like,
"Oh fuck off!"
Because come on, bad things don't always have some positive underside or side effect, and things don't happen for some god damn reason that makes things better, or even fair, and not
even acceptable.

I'm sick to death of the fact that people just can't face life as it is, for what it is. Always looking for some rationalization or excuse. Something to make themselves feel better. It's bullshit folks. Sometimes life is unfair wrong and just plain sucks. Deal with it. Denial gets you nowhere, justification does nothing for you or the situation - deal, and get over it.

Tuesday, May 3, 2005

Bradford Pears and Fish

I have a 15 (nearly 16) year old son. He's a poet at heart, and just refuses to learn the technical things that would allow him to purge the crap that he carries around all the time. He brings me bits and scraps of things he's jotted down while on the bus or in the middle of math class - things that make me want to swoon, if not for the misspellings, lack of punctuation, chicken scrawled handwriting, obvious grammar problems, etc.
He has huge potential, and equally huge teenage tendencies to resist my advice. I'm Mom for goodness sakes, the dumbass in the family.The out of touch know-nothing that wants to control his life.

And he's funny! He came in yesterday to tell me that the bradford pear trees are fully bloomed at school, that they're really pretty - but that they smell like fish. This is funny, and scarey, because he doesn't mean fish at all, and I wonder how he would know what "fish" smells like, or if this is something he heard someone else say.

I once entertained the idea that he and I were close enough that he'd share theinformation with me when he lost his virginity. What a fool I was to think such a thing! We are close, but not that close anymore I don't think. I was delegated, at least part-time, to the enemy camp when I didn't try to save him from the court/probation thing. Not that I could have if I'd tried, but I didn't try. He needed to learn the lesson, and it has put a wall of sorts, a curtain at least, between us.

Sunday, May 1, 2005

Poetry - On Poetic Acceptance

"Poetic Acceptance"
The Chapbook
Out of Print
One woman's story, written in poetry, of how various relationships in life have affected her. This collection of 27 poems reflects how the author was touched by love, grief, beauty and pain. A staple bound compilation of poetry, on linen paper with high-quality gloss cover and beautiful artwork.

Reviews of "Poetic Acceptance"
  • by Vickie Knight
  • by Martin Locock

  • What's in a Name
  • Why "Poetic Acceptance?"

  • Contact Erin
  • Erin@Poeticacceptance

  • Goodbye

    Abandoning the Young

    I have collected secrets, pressed
    and carried them, next to my skin
    to the twisted shade of the acacia.

    There I pulled them,
    mewling, and toothy
    from my breast -- kissed
    and left them, to die.

    Abandoned mysteries, once seen
    only by lovers in the safety of
    whispered midnight, withered
    in the arid desert grass,

    for the Serengeti sun frowns
    on the frail, burns the vulnerable,
    and finds not grief, but promise
    in death.

    Eye Yam

    I am uneducated, poorly read, inexperienced, sheltered, and socially unaware.
    These are the things I leave out of my bio, these are the things that are most true.

    I'm to get published in a market where there are so many things more substantial, more intellectual, by the thousands, to compete with. I make pretty pictures with words, brilliant brush strokes with good lines, contrast and tension - but they are, nonetheless, 2 dimensional, shallow.

    I am unleavened bread on a steak buffet.

    Grammar, by the way, is spelled with two A's.