Katy's Books of 2018

This is the first year (ever) that I have kept a record of my reading, and the first time I have ever made an effort to read female authors. 

I am not going to do a "top" or "best of" list because these are not all current, they are not all by female authors, but many of them are also not what I would have normally read. This year marks a good change in reading for me. I've read more, I've read different, and I'm proud of my little list here.

Castle of Crossed Destinies by Italo Calvino 

The Princess Saves Herself in This One by Amanda Lovelace 

The Night Circus by Erin Morgrnstern 

So You Want to Talk About Race by Ijeoma Oluo 

My Favorite Thing is Monsters by Emil Ferris 

Persepolis by Majane Satrapi 

The Dispossessed by Ursula K. Le Guin 

A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'engle 

Crash Overdrive by Zoe Quinn 

Park Bench by Chaboute 

Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel 

The Witch Doesn't Burn in This One by Amanda Lovelace 

Depression & Other Magic Tricks by Sabrina Benaim 

Milkbar by Christina Tosi 

The Future by Neil Hilborn 

The Hate You Give by Angie Thomas 

Space Opera by Catherynne M. Valente 

The Adventure Zone: Here There Be Gerblins by Clint McElroy, Griffin McElroy, Justin McElroy, Travis McElroy, and Carey Pietsch 

An American Marriage by Tayari Jones 

The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K Le Guin 

#NeverAgain by David Hogg and Lauren Hogg 

Sharky Malarkey by Megan Nicole Dong 

Limping To The Big Bad by Beth Ayer 

Crystal Fighters by Jen & Tyler Bartel 

Binti by Nnedi Okorafor

the fury regular

you can feel pockets
of tired and bloodless

collect under your eyes.
pitiful pools of discomfort.

dragging your vision -
blurring your voracity -

dragging you back
to that hunched over

position that doubles
you over and doubles

as pain relief
in the form of pressure

on the parts that push
against the logic

and the walls you built
inside and outside

of your body. and wait
for the passing to pass

and pass through the phases
again and again and again -

the cycle inside, the fury
is regular at least.

pusher

ask for help
because you were told

it's okay
to ask for help

but asking
leaves you vulnerable

to the criticism
to the backlash

of asking for the help
they told you to ask for

unseen

"There are tyrants in my home
I dance to keep unseen."
from Bad Egg by @rafaelcasal

i love this quote. for me, it applies to women. to survivors. 

snaggle

a database of emotional responses

to every day moments, imagined and real,

result in a snaggle of words

trapped in a cotton-mouthed -

a brain bogged down with words

from rap songs and sci-fi novels

that don't sound like her own voice.

they sound like the voices in her head -

older, angrier, wiser, worried.

deep

i can't  be deep all the time.
sometimes thoughts
are more like
a non committal cuddle.

sometimes poets think
about how no one looks good
with a sweaty forehead.

and sometimes that's what
poets feel compelled
to write about.

boat

he said "a boat load of trash"
and when he said it
he meant it.
a boat full, a boat load.
he works on the water,
you see.

quality

standard, stranded
in an old book
you trust too much in

even though
you've never read it
you bleed it

take the oath
rolled out over others
as long as it suits you

and your adaptable
standards of quality
designed to protect

a dying breed

lettuce

channel your feminine side
and listen

even if you don't actually care
about my favorite type of lettuce

just hear me. parse what's important
to me

and stop thinking about yourself
for a single minute

so i can talk openly about the value
of a small, tasty, crunchy green leaf

grief

there is a waterfall,
a specific one,
that i visit again and again

where i learned
my own version of losing faith
of realizing my own truth

and where i let myself
be sad. where it's okay for all of us
to be sad and fat and dissatisfied

her

does she comb her hair
with the needles
of the cactus you gave her
sharp enough to draw blood
or swallow the stones
you fed her, heavy and round
enough to sink her
to the bottom

each

take a piece
don't share it
it's yours to keep
like a secret

call me angel

you might have said my name
but then you called me angel

and i grew wings damned
by gods and the color of my skin

damned to a cold sweat with fever
rising in my blood like poison

wings that crashed out from me
alongside thoughts and the desire to kiss you

visions of how to use them and the thought,
the idea, this, the thought of a promise

that if you let me use them
i could keep my weight off you

if you let me lie over you
i could protect you

from the pain in your ribs
if you let me make love to you

i could use the wings you gave me
to keep you comfortable

i am not a writer

i may tell stories
i might communicate ideas
transport feelings through words
direct hearts via rhetoric
but i am not a writer

so listen, so wonder
with me
riddle me this
i tell stories
i communicate ideas
i transport
i direct
but i

am not

a writer.

what am i?

scare

a phone call
in the middle of the day
from a family member

instead of a text

break

they think that if the water is hot enough
you'll scream, break your silence.

fragile application

you open up and expose 

your soft underbelly

admitting you're fragile.

don't be, they say. 

they say it loud

like an order.

they think that if they apply

enough heat

you'll melt and fuse

back together

like venetian glass,

but you're not cracked.

you're not broken

until they break you.

you're not see-through

or else they'd see

the blood and fatty tissue

barely holding you together.

apply enough heat

and they think you'll just melt

back together. like new.

sadie

we had a discussion,
the neighbors and i,

about the coyote
we saw following

one of the neighborhood's
friendliest dogs.

turtle

i have been thinking
a lot about the turtle

who i witnessed beginning
her journey across

a busy, single-lane
highway.

i didn't see her
on my journey past

on my way home,
so i am hopeful

that she made it,
perhaps with the help

of someone braver than me.

31 Drabbles in May

This space has been quiet, but I have been busy...

 Every day in May, I and a few others each wrote a 100-word drabble.

 Here is the link to my work on the drabble blog.

 ... what comes next?

Songs to Mina III

III x III

Tree, molting and half complicated

Turned ready for getting more of the amorphous

Alkaline breakfast by your maker

At the proud hand committed but wavering

When life is fighting against premature mortality 

Thee, molting and half given in from the battle

Within your bones

Pained but making it to the ends of days

Songs to Mina II

III x II
Wee, mighty, and half connected
Torn, read, forgotten, memorizing of the monologue
And the breaks flagged by our mark
At this proofread, commentating, worn
Where lines are faded by perpetual mark ups

Wee, mighty, and half grieving from the beauty
Within bolded text
Printed in margins, on the edges

Songs to Mina I

III x I
We mighty have countered

The red-rotten monotony of the movement

And the broken flag with our armor

At this profane community torn

Where lines are split on punctuation marks

We mighty have given breath to the brutality
With the doubt newly
Imprinted on bones, on their wings

National Poetry Month Project #Translation

For National Poetry Month this year, I've decided to practice translating poems from English into English. I previously practiced this fun exercise with fellow poet Craig Santos Perez for our chapbook Origami Shipwreck.  Below are the three poems I chose with the inspiration and help of Jenni B. Baker and Beth Ayer Chelotti. Thank you, ladies!

Songs to Joannes by Mina Loy

III
We might have coupled
In the bed-ridden monopoly of a moment
Or a broken flesh with one another
At the profane communion table
Where wine is spill'd on promiscuous lips

We might have given birth to a butterfly
With the daily news
Printed in blood on its wings

[In the Pearly Green Light] by Frank O'Hara

In the pearly green light
of early morning when dread
of day and some distant event
is just breaking off my head

of dreams and the security
of nightmares where a note
of myself is always throbbing
its characteristic rote

of personal anxiety, I wake
to real fears of war and chance
and, worse, of duty to the dead.
Yet I never wholly fear the romance

of my interior self no matter
how asleep I am, how nearly dead.

[New York, April 15, 1954]

A Sort of Song by William Carlos Williams

Let the snake wait under
his weed
and the writing
be of words, slow and quick, sharp
to strike, quiet to wait,
sleepless.

--through metaphor to reconcile
the people and the stones.
Compose. (No ideas
but in things) Invent!
Saxifrage is my flower that splits
the rocks.

Jack

Facebook has become the place where I write to my friends and keep a time capsule of what is happening. But I also want to keep a time capsule here, because it's so much easier to navigate, and it's all mine. It helped so much to have this post about when we got Jack and Rowdy in 2007.

So here is what I wrote on facebook on February 23rd 2018, the day after Jack got too sick to save...

"thank you to everyone who has shown sympathy and compassion to Ryan and me over the last 24 hours. they've been hard. Jack left a huge gap in our regular routine and a big fluffy hole in our hearts that will take some time to heal. we changed our every move at home to accommodate jack's health struggles, his comfort, and to limit his stress as much as possible. last night and this morning really drove all that home. all those changes. the layers of washable blankets over all the places he would rest, the oodles of medicines he had to take in all the different methods, watching where we walk and scoping out whatever accidents we'd need to clean up. I did laundry almost every day this year. we bought a carpet cleaning machine. we would sit for hours accumulative throughout the day feeding him and sitting with him to encourage him to eat. we slept with fairy lights on so we could help him get to the litter in the middle of the night without having to reach for a light first. we slept in odd shapes so jack would be as comfortable as possible. we paid hundreds of dollars on medicine, special food, and vet visits to make sure jack got everything he needed at all times. it's been an intense few months. Liz, Mike, Jerry, Josh can attest to how long and detailed the care instructions were when we went away for christmas. thank you all for helping us care for Jack.

now... there's a bunch of left over prescription food and medicines. there are blankets everywhere that smell like him that he'll never hide under again. there are A1 amazon boxes that we kept around just in case, even though since November he only sat in one very briefly. they used to be his favorite place to sleep. there was no purr-snoring or uncomfortable grunts as we tried to fall asleep last night. there was no one shouting "meck" at me from the kitchen as I closed the door to leave for work. we didn't have to put Rowdy and Alli's dry food away after they ate their fill because we didn't need to worry about Jack sneaking a piece of food he shouldn't eat.

now... there are these memories. these big, fluffy, loud memories of One Eyed Jack, the cat who charmed everyone he met. the cat who loved us all so unconditionally. the cat who let me rub my face in his belly when i was feeling sad and who made me feel better every single time. the cat who just a picture of him was enough to make friends feel better over text message. the cat who could move completely silently so you'd turn around and be spooked that he was there, or could stomp his feet so loud you could hear him from the other room when he wanted you to know he was looking for something to eat. the cat who, when he played, was so damn goofy you had to laugh at him. the cat who attempted whole-heartily to steal an entire box of pizza in front of a crowd of people. the cat who stole hot wings, and ate all the frosting off a lemon cake. the Jack-a-ron who "helped" me make macarons by taste testing all the green ones. the cat who purred at the vets. the cat who was so fluffy and fuzzy that even at his dirtiest was still soooo soft and fluffy.

i miss the smell behind his ears and the sound of his purr. i miss being followed around the house by him. i miss our little conversations. i'm going to miss shouting at him and rowdy for fighting. i'm going to miss cleaning up all the mess he made while eating because he only had four teeth. i am going to miss him drooling on my hand as he uses it as a pillow to fall asleep on while on my lap. i am going to miss the excitement of having two cats on my lap at once. i am going to miss the little "bbrrrp" he made every time he jumped. i am going to miss the eagerness behind every boop to the nose. i even miss the stress and worry of making sure he is okay and comfortable because it was such a purpose, a cause, a drive.

i miss him. a lot of people will. he was special. he is special. he had a hard start to life, he fought hard at the end. i know we gave him so many soft places to sleep and play. we gave him warmth and comfort and happiness. and he showed us his gratitude constantly. it was an amazing eleven years we had together. amazing and wonderful and awesome. i wouldn't trade a second of the joy and love, no matter how much missing him hurts.

i love you Jackie. I always will. xoxo"

A lot of people responded to this post, the post i put on the wonderful podcast page, and to ryan and my shorter posts on the 22nd.

I miss so much about Jack. 

He was so present, so aware, so fluffy, and so caring. He was our therapy cat, and was therapy for so many of our friends who visited. Everyone loved him. There was something so special about him.

I am sure I will write more soon.

One Eyed Jack Acheson, July 2006 to February 22nd 2018. 

life is fragile

but Jack was so strong

FABLE for Sale

Hi All! During most of last year, I worked on putting together a little collection of poems that I called FABLE.

Many of the poems appear on this blog as first drafts (most from many years ago), but have taken a new form in FABLE. Maybe you'll check it out?

Ebook is in the works, but might be a while. I have a lot of learning to do when it comes to the formatting for that.

Artwork is by my awesome bro, Mike Regan.

flurry

i get them a lot...
the little static explosions
that erupt inside my head
as reflex and reaction
to all the static in the world
of people and people in cars
that flurry past and through
even the most private moments
in the form of thoughts
ideas and memories
that corrupt the socially constucted
need for self care, for "me time"
that i call "time out"
because it makes me feel
like a child without the same worries
as the adult version of me
and lets me focus less on me
and more on all the little flurries
popping and spatting inside my head

soul twist

a bright colored button down shirt
torso twisting underneath

limbos to the front of the line
for some childish drink

with whipped cream
and seasonal sprinkles on top

and has a dumb name
like merman ale or unicorn breath

that the happy shirt wearing arms
grasp eager and enthusiastic

accompanied by big brown eyes
and a goofy grin that makes you smile back

despite your desired demeanor
of stoic, skeptic, cynical...

miserable. you prefer people think
of you as a miserable bastard

but this bright and shiny unicorn
of a soul twists all your insides

into knots of joy and contempt
while you sip on your bitter bean water

walnut

molars clamp down
to break open the shell

churn

pulled and tossed
handled rough
under the churn
of the day after day
after day after day

Split

the skin on the back of my hands
cracks and splits in the winter
like ice fissures formed from the cold
and dry side effect of artificial heat
manufactured from electricity and gas

where

where did i put
that book of poems you gave me?

the one with the poems about love
and flowers and sunsets

the book with the red cover
and the little picture

of a girl who i think
looks a bit like me.

dweller

trying to enter the space
through an entry way
a door or portal
a passage, a way between
two connected places

there she dwells
waiting to block me
stop me in my tracks
a wall of heavy thoughts
pounding against reality

she's a liar
but what she tells me
sounds like the truth
I have been telling myself
to ease the discomfort

of being alive
and being human
in the cacophony
of guilty pleasures
and pursuits of power

to be comfortable
to make up stories
and tell myself
I am just as good
as my imaginary heroes

I am their god
after all, I created them
she turns and scowls
they mustn't be very good then
if they came from me

the dweller breaks down
walls around the entry way
the door, the portal
the passage between spaces
and she forces me

to chose a different path
another way through
around or over her
and then I have to repair
the damage she caused

breaking the walls
down and damaging
the art hung there
I sweep up the dust
from the construction

if I want to get in
I have to go past her
so I go through the rubble
and clean up the mess after
rather than push her out