the spring in the wall

another ladder effected poem

wondering,

what elastic is to you
what spring is to me

what stretches, rubber and metal parts

while writing to you

while writing to you i wondered
if you heard the spring in the wall.

it popped last night, and you asked
me if i was dreaming when i told you.

i left you a note and stuck to the table
with tape so that cat's couldn't hide it.

it's to ask you for milk and one of those
enchilada meals in the yellow boxes.

duty free from Beirut

shukran ashraf

chocolate tastes even better
when it's traveled from far off lands.

and better still, when it's a gift
from a friend you've been missing.

another poem for John Landry

still Poet Laureate of New Bedford

thanks for the fruit basket.

i had the grapefruit --
that was hiding at the bottom --
for breakfast the next morning;

the morning after the reading.

with sugar lightly sprinkled over each revealed half.

thanks again mr landry, john.

stay well.

a poem for John Landry

Poet Laureate of New Bedford

i wonder how long it takes
to grow a beard like that.

milkshake!

the internet is good

=^_^=

i found this at the internet...

le grand content

something about the computer-voice, or the music, or the bubbles and they way they float... i'm not sure. but something about this little video makes me feel relaxed and happy.

down town

we rubbed shoulders with tea drinkers
sniffed their sweet black litchi and rice milk
and held out out mugs for change on the main drag

anti-urge and fleece

there are days when the urge to write. the will to write. are absent in me.

today may not be one of those days. the will to write here is plentiful. the will to write what i am *required* to, however, is limp.

maybe today there is a source. anything from that source breaks itself into words and typed symbols and meanings. anything outside of that source. anything forced. not sourced. is impossible. i cannot tell you about the rhetoric of a human website. i cannot tell you what makes her site work. stand out.

maybe today i should take liberty. today i should be late. today i am wearing the blue fleece my mother got me for christmas. today i am too comfortable to work.

but today i have no excuse. i have only the weight of *required* text hovering over me.

today i don't have the will to write a poem. but at least i have poetry in my fingers.

i just wanna play Viva Pinata!!

why can't doing school work be as much fun as growing super tulips and turning bad snails into good ones?

3 years

today, ryan and i have been married for 3 years. ^_^ it doesn't feel like it's been that long.

even more notable, though, is that we met in a chat room 8 years ago today.

*that* feels like a long time ago!

love you monkee!

welcome home

i did what i could
to console him

with home-baked scones
and dark coffee

this is town

for ashraf, welcome home

he said it rains mud here -
the water of the earth
mixing with the dust of war.

the traffic is bad, he said,
because the bridges have all
been bombed and broken

and yet, they live on
at book fairs and cafes
on corners of half ruined streets.

he said to me, his eyes
washed with knowing, they
believe war will come again

and yet, they keep on living.

town

this is town

where we tread alongside komodo dragons and sheep




i met radclyff
under the primary colors of sunset
over-looking the river.

outside a shop i asked him
-sweetly-
if i could borrow some change
for a turkish delight and tizer.

'all the drinks here are red'
he replied, dropping three quid at me.

we met later at the party

thank you little old men
and some

Crispin Glover Can Dance

Happy Friday the 13th
(especially to creetures of the girl kind)

mipo link #2 - Brian Boutwell

bonus!

if you've never heard brian read, you're missing out. he's got an amazing sense of timing and a deep, enriched, southern drawl which is just phenominal.

you can hear brian read two poems at ...

http://www.miporadio.net/BRIAN_BOUTWELL/index.html

... hey, brian, you still out there? haven't talked to you in ages, give me a call some time ^_^

mipo link

http://www.miporadio.net/KATY_ACHESON/

i was being egocentric today. i googled myself. under images, i found the link to my mipo radio page ^_^ this is good. i haven't been able to find it because didi changed up the goodnight show's site and i proved incompetent with the new arrangement.

so there it is, for anyone who wants to hear me read a poem with my very own magical voice of wonder.

and there's a picture with me and max, on the first day we met =^_^= happy memories are happy

Birthday Memorial

today, Max would have been one year old.

to celebrate, we gave the kitties (jack and rowdy) a nice dinner of chicken and melted cheese, and they ate a lot and purred and were happy.

with lots of love for maxerodenfoe r.i.p.

southern poetry

at the book store
two nights ago

i knelt in front
of the periodicals

and searched through
the gray covered collection

for the name of a poet i knew
i wouldn't find

saturday

(radclyff came over(.))

we floated past all five hours
on canoes and paradise-feather stuffed pillows

my hair falling fore
and his gentle enthusiasm

last saturday we survived
on his red canvas sofa - tonight

we excel on mine
as if birds were our prey

and fair treat

fun things to make you laugh

here, a bunny like thing for president

and below... a commercial that you won't see on tv... at least not without cuts made.

mountain town romance

where his facial hair scratches my forehead
is where our simple affair retreats - to quiet -

to retract the last sentence
is where our complications boil

and we pour them out over tea leaves
and fine white sugar

our trademark argument -
maybe he is always right

and maybe i do overreact -
but rewarded by our simplicities

and content for store-bought pizza
and cheap tea in mugs i bought

from an imaginary mountain-side village
where our heads rest on each other's shoulders

to watch the sun set through the reflection
of our picture window -

staring east outside to keep the wind at our backs -
rewards are particles and absences of light

until my fingers get cold because my tea is gone
and i want to forgive him with my hands

and another poet

yeah, one who is actually writing poems ^_^

everyone, say hi to shirley allard and her spiffy new poetry blog.

someone is still writing poetry

but it isn't me

check out ozy [the] man diaz

faces

image stolen from badmana.com