5 Sketchbooks
I began my first book on my twenty-third birthday in 1977 and have completed 167 volumes and counting since that time. Each journal is filled chronologically, from front page to back. On the average, one volume is finished every 3 1/2 months. Looking back, I can say my books have evolved in response to my needs. In some periods, images are more dominant, at other times, writing is. There are periods filled with dreams, and other periods where dreams are infrequent. In more recent books, I have started to focus on words and phrases that seem to appear from nowhere and stick in my mind…
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Air
You are spilling
yellow. You must know
you are not the first to spill yellow.
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dervish; wolf
the first poem she ever wrote wasn’t a poem at all: premonition, prophecy, end of bloodline
that feeling again, fuck that feels good, she shivered, like the thought of the woman in the forest
whose attic was a room she half lived in, real drug in her body, rapture of skull…
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Part 1: Meet Nadine
If Nadine had known that the tyranny of normalcy could unravel over the course of just one day, she might have savored this last morning of illness. She woke up with a throat full of phlegm. The run-down feeling in her seemed to have settled deeper into her body over the course of the night…
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Mouthgate
I have 19 little blue people living in my throat. I feel them grabbing fistfuls of flesh on their attempts to ascent through my throat up to my mouth.
They’re small enough and light enough, their hands and feet don’t hurt me much, but there are enough of them to make their presence, their power, their intentions known. They want out. They need out. They came here only to escape...
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Four Portraits + Violet, A Story in Words and Pictures
I wrote to the flowers and they became portraits. I wrote portraits to the holiday huts, and maybe to all the women I’ve ever known, to my dead mother, all my dead ancestors, you, me, or maybe just themselves, all who have ever been flowers. The flowers have their own lives now…
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