Tuesday, April 30, 2013

I'm over at THE DICTIONARY PROJECT BLOG DOT COM // the word chosen for me by Lisa O'Neill was YORE // i wrote a poem in less than 24 hrs for this NaPoMo project

Want to see the poem + some cool pics + some of the other Tucson writers participating in this NaPoMo celebration:  CLICK HERE
We have two days left of April and three poets’ work still to share with you for na•po•mo 2013.
Enjoy Shelly Taylor’s take on yore.

yore  (yôr),  n.  [ME., fr. yore, adv., long ago, fr. OE, gedra, fr. gear year]: time long past < in days of ~  
Na•Po•Mo The Dictionary Project:  Yore
Shelly Taylor / Apr 25, 2013
Stop the death music:  city a body
leashed a fastened quagmire:  city sky lean
back:  a wreck eschewed our righteous
inhabitants, one carousel livened your last
disposal:  wait—women weaving raffia
—their city hands tied furiously an earthen tree.
Go around the brawling in the street:
our fortunes buried post-Sherman
set the South aflame—his gods reflecting
opaque the horizon:  general gaze of
yore, its forgotten fauna:  glint in the light of fog:
never manage it:  your restless eye:  what happened then?
Shoulders back to please the ladies:  break the same
as rise:  our rooster forgetting its agrarian foothold
fenceline morning:  brown from your mama—
this black horse you will her forget about. 
Scales & carapaces:  each city
namesake, go one & believe me:  or: 
fight man’s possession:  antennae of light
—they who were happiest at one time: 
make them endure it.     

shellypicfornapomoBorn in rural southern Georgia, Shelly Taylor resides in Tucson. She is the author of Black-Eyed Heifer (Tarpaulin Sky Press: 2010) & four chapbooks: Peaches the yes-girl (Portable Press at Yo-Yo Labs: 2008), Land Wide to Get a Hold Lost In (Dancing Girl Press: 2009), Dirt City Lions (Horse Less Press: 2012), & the forthcoming, The Doldrums (Goodmorning Menagerie: 2013).

For real Tucson?

Seen yesterday at dusk at the busyass Waffle House off I-10 & 22nd.  This a busy place to tie ya horse off.

Monday, April 29, 2013

weekend solo road trip

wild ponies abound

Navajo reservation is my favorite place

on the beautiful rez

i'm saying GO go GO

canyon sunset yes please

very serious looking/sun in my face

peaceful here

daddy got a cool looking new harley // careful careful!!

very important warnings from the elders against teaching - stolen from the volta blog // "at the expense of your so-called soul..."

I don’t want to know how I write poetry. Poetry is dangerous: talking too much about it, like naming your gods, brings bad luck. I believe that most poets will go to almost any lengths to conceal their own reluctant, scanty insights both from others and from themselves. Paying attention to how you do it is like stopping in the middle of any other totally involving and pleasurable activity to observe yourself suspended in the fatal inner mirror: you may improve your so-called technique, but only at the expense of your so-called soul” (21).
Atwood, Margaret. “Poetic Process?” A Field Guide to Contemporary Poetry and Poetics. Revised Edition. Ed. Stuart Friebert, David Walker, and David Young. Oberlin, OH: Oberlin College Press, 1997. 21.

Thursday, April 25, 2013

Chuck Taylor's story

I follow Fallon on Instagram which can sometimes make me sad cause I wish I could be where she is, but I love seeing her up & down the road making runs, getting ready for Vegas, how she loves her horses--they are her babies.  I love her passion when she speaks of Chuck Taylor, her miracle horse, in this video.  I just like her a lot.  And hopefully one day I'll be her competition...

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

sometimes i feel i could throw my hands up in the air

trail running TUESDAY

TUES LO + gentle giant saguaros

SUNDAY a day in the life 

Sunday, April 21, 2013

NaPoMo Fan Mail: cause, as Berryman said, 'poets don't get much fan mail.' Sunday's Natl Po Month Fan/Love mail goes to Nikky Finney.

Nikky Finney I need to address you via fan mail because you too are a southern girl & the world-at-large needs more southern girl voices singing of southern experience, whether the burden of or the outreach of oak on a Sunday afternoon.  Above all you transcend this experience, this history into an intimate & universal woman experience that has power to pull me right on back home--listen awhile--a kind of love affair you cannot leave off even if far away.  So, thank you, Nikky Finney, for your work & for this voice that speaks multitudes at octaves that rend me shorn through.


  by Nikky Finney
   Eenee Menee Mainee Mo!
       —Rudyard Kipling, "A Counting-Out Song,"
in Land and Sea Tales for Scout
           The woman with cheerleading legs
has been left for dead. She hot paces a roof,
four days, three nights, her leaping fingers,
helium arms rise & fall, pulling at the week-
old baby in the bassinet, pointing to the eighty-
two-year-old grandmother, fanning & raspy
in the New Orleans Saints folding chair.

                      Eenee Menee Mainee Mo!

           Three times a day the helicopter flies
by in a low crawl. The grandmother insists on
not being helpless, so she waves a white hand-
kerchief that she puts on and takes off her head
toward the cameraman and the pilot who
remembers well the art of his mirrored-eyed
posture in his low-flying helicopter: Bong Son,
Dong Ha, Pleiku, Chu Lai. He makes a slow
Vietcong dip & dive, a move known in Rescue
as the Observation Pass.

           The roof is surrounded by broken-levee
water. The people are dark but not broken. Starv-
ing, abandoned, dehydrated, brown & cumulous,
but not broken. The four-hundred-year-old
anniversary of observation begins, again—

                      Eenee Menee Mainee Mo!
                      Catch a—

The woman with pom-pom legs waves
her uneven homemade sign:

                      Pleas Help   &hbsp;  Pleas

and even if the e has been left off the Pleas e

do you know simply 
by looking at her
that it has been left off
because she can't spell
(and therefore is not worth saving)
or was it because the water was rising so fast
there wasn't time?

                      Eenee Menee Mainee Mo!
                      Catch a— a—

           The low-flying helicopter does not know
the answer. It catches all this on patriotic tape,
but does not land, and does not drop dictionary,
or ladder.

           Regulations require an e be at the end
of any Pleas e before any national response
can be taken.

           Therefore, it takes four days before
the national council of observers will consider
dropping one bottle of water, or one case
of dehydrated baby formula, on the roof
where the e has rolled off into the flood,

                      (but obviously not splashed
loud enough)

where four days later not the mother,
not the baby girl,
but the determined hanky waver,
whom they were both named for,
(and after) has now been covered up
with a green plastic window awning,
pushed over to the side
right where the missing e was last seen.

                      My mother said to pick
                      The very best one!

What else would you call it,
Mr. Every-Child-Left-Behind.

Anyone you know
ever left off or put on
an e by mistake?

Potato   Po tato e

           In the future observation helicopters
will leave the well-observed South and fly
in Kanye-West-Was-Finally-Right formation.
They will arrive over burning San Diego.

           The fires there will be put out so well.
The people there will wait in a civilized manner.
And they will receive foie gras and free massage
for all their trouble, while there houses don't
flood, but instead burn calmly to the ground.

The grandmothers were right
about everything.

           People who outlived bullwhips & Bull
Connor, historically afraid of water and routinely
fed to crocodiles, left in the sun on the sticky tar-
heat of roofs to roast like pigs, surrounded by
forty feet of churning water, in the summer
of 2005, while the richest country in the world
played the old observation game, studied
the situation: wondered by committee what to do;
counted, in private, by long historical division;
speculated whether or not some people are surely
born ready, accustomed to flood, famine, fear.

                      My mother said to pick
                      The very best one
                      And you are not   it!

           After all, it was only po' New Orleans,
old bastard city of funny spellers. Nonswimmers
with squeeze-box accordion accents. Who would
be left alive to care?

- See more at: http://www.poets.org


  by Nikky Finney
Sundown, the day nearly eaten away, 

the Boxcar Willies peep. Their
inside-eyes push black and plump

against walls of pumpkin skin. I step 
into dying backyard light. Both hands 

steal into the swollen summer air, 
a blind reach into a blaze of acid, 

ghost bloom of nacre & breast. 
One Atlantan Cherokee Purple, 

two piddling Radiator Charlies 
are Lena-Horne lured into the fingers

of my right hand. But I really do love you, 
enters my ear like a nest of yellow jackets, 

well wedged beneath a two-by-four. 

But I really didn't think I would (ever leave), 
stings before the ladder hits the ground. 

I swat the familiar buzz away. 
My good arm arcs and aims. 

My elbow cranks a high, hard cradle
and draws a fire. The end of the day's 

sweaty air stirs fast in a bowl, the coming
shadows, the very diamond match I need. 

One by one, each Blind Willie
takes his turn Pollocking the back

fence, heart pine explodes gold-leafed in 
red and brown-eyed ochre. There is practice

for everything in this life. This is how
you throw something perfectly good away.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org

both poems are from Head Off & Split (winner of the Natl Book Critics Circle Award)


dr dd came to town

TUCSON!  best city in the world :)

2 secs before Skype interview getting some Sasstrid loving

one sec before interview trying to look serious serious which did not last too long

support Tucson's own CHAX PRESS

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

THE NEXT BIG THING - a viral self interview series

(The Next Big Thing)

Self-Interview with Shelly Taylor
 I’m grateful to Arianne Zwartjes for tagging me in The Next Big Thing, a viral self-interview, and to those I tag here who will follow and who will follow them.

What is the working title of the book?

 Lions, Remonstrance is my second full-length collection.  I’m also co-editing--with the one & only Abraham Smith--an anthology of contemporary American poets birthed & raised up & somehow belonging to the holler, lovingly titled Hick Poetics

Where did the idea come from for the book?

(1) Life coming back together after it seems to fall apart; writing inadvertently follows the life trajectory.  For three years I wrote my life in this second book & that is simply it.  Or, I had a lil heartbreak & I wrote on through it, you know...  

(2) In summer of 2011 I was in Key West & thinking a lot about how I’d like to see a collection of contemporary voices of poets raised liminal to urbanity, whose mother was the silence and father a culvert of leaves, as Abe says.  And now here we go Hick Poetics, an enormous undertaking of enormous importance, as nothing of this sort has been attempted & Lost Roads is our press. 

What genre does your book fall under?

 My second full-length is poetry--much more so than Heifer, my first.  //  Hick Poetic is an anthology of essays & verse.

What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

Really all I could say is Ben Nichols of Lucero would be just perfect.   He's not an actor but who cares?  He'd play the man-boy-soldier.  He will pull you under.  The speaker can be visually anonymous.  I would choose anonymity, after all this is a book of verse, hardly cinematic in its whiplash but nice looking men are always nice representationally.

What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?

[[[Psychological exploration of the troubled female consciousness situated in the southern gothic-esque etiquette.]]]   That sounds dopey serious, I have always been overwrought. It is [[[a book of broken down love songs.]]] & what is left is marry yourself on a deserted island, something Shakespearean in concept, as in, this is your body-life on fire from the hunted:  so won, so lost.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

Two years-ish.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

Life.  I had a novel started & poetry took back over me as it needed to in 2010.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest? Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

Lions is out there right now waiting for a home.  I watched a lot of Bonanza during the writing of this thing & American mythos are shot through the voicing:  what is masculine?  What is but a lady drowning, a man?  

The poems are desert, southern, & beach poems:  they roam & are truthful I feel, as I don’t hold much back; they almost killed me in a way but I’m done now, thank goodness; I can look at life forwardly, as in what is next?  Fresh starts are exciting!!      

As for the anthology, did I state yet that Lost Roads is our Press?  I mean, c’mon!

My tagged writers for next Wednesday are:

the only man who could tie me down is Ben Nichols from Lucero

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Monday, April 15, 2013

Saturday, April 13, 2013

I have some poems in HANDSOME - thanks Allison Titus!

The fifth issue contains work by:
Jeff Alessandrelli, Emma Aylor, J. Mae Barizo, Anat Benzvi, Erin M. Bertram, Lucy Biederman, Josh Burns, Kristina Marie Darling, Lauren de Paepe, Meryl DePasquale, Jay Deshpande, Gillian Devereux, Julie Doxsee, Jenny Drai, Judson Evans, Kristin Fitzsimmons, Kit Frick, Kristen Gleason, Sarah Goldstein, Rae Gouirand, Brian Henry, Rich Ives, Tim Kercher, Jason Labbe, Jake Levine, Alessandra Lynch, Joseph Mains, Siwar Masannat, rob mclennan, Erika Meitner, Rachel Mennies, Jennifer Moore, John Pappas, Morgan Parker, Dylan Pasture, Allyson Paty, Emilia Phillips, Deborah Poe, Dan Poppick, Elizabeth Powell, Peter Richards, Farren Stanley, Benjamin Sutton, Shelly Taylor, Jeffrey Tigchelaar, Jessalyn Wakefield, Audrey Walls, Kerri Webster, and Joseph Wood.

Love set you going like a fat gold watch

sometime this last week was sibling day:  sisters, 13 yrs strong

New Swedish Hasbeens?  YES!

Friday, April 12, 2013

NAPOMO FAN MAIL DOS / cause poets don't get enough love letters : Michael Earl Craig, poet & farrier

Michael Earl Craig I love you for a number of reasons: (1) you are a poet I can admire cause you hold horses' feet on a weekly/yearly basis.  This is more than okay with me.  If I had a stronger back, maybe I could do this line of work too & I respect it cause it's hard work.  I would know knowing horses.  Livingston, MO is a place I feel I'd love & you live there. I wonder if you've met Jim Harrison or Russell Chatam or any of those ole wild men.  (2)  your poems / YOUR POEMS.  Your poem "Advice For The Poet" does just what it says.  Here it is in total:  "Never aim your bicycle at a chicken. / Never set your glasses on an anvil."  This is sound poet-to-poet info here.  In the poem, "I Was Thinking," in the first section, you write: "I thought:  It's Wednesday, I'm  / gonna get me a belt buckle with / a bald eagle on it. / The wind chimes went batty."  This makes me happy as well.  All of your books make me happy & so here is your fan mail from me, Shelly Taylor, for NAPOMO.  Thanks!  And salud!

poem one, from CAN YOU RELAX IN MY HOUSE

he waits, for he is a spadefoot. And as surely as men
ride in the beds of pickups holding shovels, sometimes
squinting, so too does the spadefoot. He is surrounded.
An ant crawls across a dog biscuit. Nobody seems to ever tire
of this. Then everyone gets tired at once, and night is quiet.

It is now that the spadefoot works his little leg.
In time a hallway is made, and a woman,
and we see the remains of a muffin left out on a plate
by the window, which somehow holds for me all of Evening.

Rain falls on the world, and into the cracks, and into a teacup
someone left on a fencepost. Each drop comes tapping the garden.
A mudslide occurs and the spadefoot is swept away.
poem two, from YES, MASTER

You could say I rode a tall horse.
You could say I rode a long black horse.
In reality I'd never even touched a horse.
I drove by them all the time.
Horses loose in pastures;
horses tied to fences, to trees;
horses hobbled;
horses running wild along the ditches;
and then the ones that simply stood in the rain,
that baked in the sun,
that dreamt with their heads down.
As I shot past in my car it was all I could manage
to even glance at a horse.
However, I do remember noticing
this one horse, a grey horse;
he was young and was kept apart from other horses.
He was always pacing and stomping
and throwing his head and whinnying,
and basically always on the brink
of exploding chest-first through the fence
to get over to the other horses.
For horses are herd animals.
Horses need other horses.
Horses easily die of loneliness.
This young grey horse seemed to be doing this.
He was a colt when I first saw him,
and about thirty-two when I finally pulled over and parked my car.
I left the engine running and got out
and strode through the tall grass
to get to the barbed-wire fence where he stood.
He was quite old, sway-backed, bad teeth.
His eyes were sunk in his head. He no longer
moved about, but just stood there in place
and sort of bobbed his head
in a kind of left-to-right figure eight.
It was all he was capable of--I could see this
as I approached him in his pasture.
All the other horses were in a distant pasture.
They looked like specks of black rice
on the yellow hillside. I reached the fence.
I was finally standing not three feet from this horse.
I reached over the top strand of wire.
As I lowered my hand
the horse looked at me serenely
as if he'd known me all his life.
I patted his head.
I am one of the world's largest assholes.
You are a farrier. "One who shoes horses." But you never explicitly write about shoeing horses, I don't think. Is shoeing horses a passion for you? Or do you do it for the money? Can you write a five word, two line poem about being a farrier?
Go look at the poem called I RATTLED OFF TO WORK TODAY in new book. That may not be “me,” but that’s how time usually moves for me (and that is definitely my pickup).

Yes, shoeing is a passion. It's very challenging and rewarding work. I have to run a business, be good with people, be good with horses, understand equine anatomy, and work well with my hands. Most of the tools used daily are tools that have been in use for hundreds of years. In many ways it’s very primitive. I’m like a caveman, really—stooped over, smeared with horseshit and urine, blowing farmer snots next to the customer’s Navigator, just looking for my next Ibuprofen.

But what exactly is the caveman up to? Well, to summarize: I'm carefully trimming and sculpting the horse’s foot with nippers and a rasp while holding it between my knees (not kidding). Then I look at it carefully, take a few measurements, and go to the anvil to shape an inanimate object (horseshoe) to fit this horse's foot. I use a forge so the metal is extremely hot and has to be handled with tongs. After a few trips, making sure the shoe fits, I quench it in water and take a small hammer named Rick and nail it (shoe) onto the horse's foot while he/she stands there on 3 legs, quietly or not.

But yes, I also do it for the money. There is no money in poetry.

Brief poem you asked for: Fondling my clinch / block, wondering. 

all this from an interview with tao lin

NAPOMO (national poetry month for you uninitiated) FAN MAIL UNE: It was John Berryman who stated last I remember very astutely 'poets don't get much fan mail' in his wryest intonation that often rendered him maniacal but genius, yes, too. It is true. For NAPOMO Ima gonna remedy that by firstly giving Richard Siken fan mail saying Richard Siken I love you for many reasons: (1) this poem. THIS POEM. / (2) for that offhand comment at Che's when you said I remind you of someone. and I said to you, oh yeh I get that all the time. and when you said Condoleeza Rice I fell for you; and when you said you'd trust me to run the country I thought now that is one tall order but I loved you anyways cause you were joking & not-joking & then I called you lil Dicky Siken & it was last call.

About the Boats

Boat. War. Song. Wine.There is a sound inside the word.
Fighting. Many. Fire. Drowning.We wanted to find that sound.
To love a man, you must find the boy
inside him. To love a boy, you must
unclench your fist and set down
your weapons. All men carry within
themselves the boys they have been,
their childish dreams, their earliest
wounds. A man betrays himself
when he smiles widely.
It isn’t fair to love someone. It isn’t fair.
There is a sound inside the word still
open to interpretation; a personal sigh,
not yet a common language, meaning
in the slosh, an exhalation between
the consonants. Tutelage is the search
for yourself inside another. Fatherhood
when the boys approach each other.
War, when the boys have nothing in common.
What does one do with a beautiful boy?
The options: protect or ravage. Thunderous options.
Timothy. Ganymede. Miltiades.
Anyway, a boy makes his own storm clouds.
Do not underestimate me. I was not helpless.Nothing was founded inside me that I did not request.

from Likestarlings.com

Thursday, April 11, 2013

Get this book! Aisha Sabatini Sloan's memoir! Aisha & I went to MFA school together. Congrats, Aisha!

“Aisha Sabatini Sloan is interested in the moments and events when a single lifeline crosses through the concentration points of one’s times. She identifies the echo and images emanating from gesture, from drama, and—open-eyed—speaks to and for many.”—Barbara Cully, author, Desire Reclining
The Fluency of Light makes a very valuable contribution to the literature of mixed-race identity in America. First of all, the childhood described is sane, happy, and loving. The downbeats and shadows belong to others who endured great difficulty but kept on working. These include Thelonius Monk, Ana Mendieta, Adrian Piper, and others the author encounters on her artistic and intellectual journey. Sabatini Sloan braids the lives of artists she admires with her own adventures and this way illuminates the generation of the eighties, particularly in LA, who came out of the post–Civil Rights period when grown-ups were still idealistic about integration and affirmative action, but carried suspicion around the house. She doesn’t pretend to have any solutions to the entrenched (because entirely visual) nature of racial separation, but the way she keeps going, herself, as a photographer, throughout the story underscores the message that doing art is essential to survival.”—Fanny Howe
“One of the most original, startling memoirs I have seen in the past ten years, Sabatini Sloan’s The Fluency of Light charts an entirely fresh course through the tangled territory of race and class in modern-day America. Each page offers fresh insight, unexpected information, crystal-clear thinking on the current cultural moment—a nation about to turn more brown than white, more mixed than ‘pure.’”—Dinty W. Moore, author, Between Panic & Desire
In these intertwined essays on art, music, and identity, Aisha Sabatini Sloan, the daughter of African American and Italian American parents, examines the experience of her mixed-race identity. Embracing the far-ranging stimuli of her media-obsessed upbringing, she grasps at news clippings, visual fragments, and lyrics from past and present in order to weave together a world of sense.
Art in all forms guides the author toward understanding concepts like blackness, jazz, mortality, riots, space, time, self, and other without falling prey to the myth that all things must exist within a system of binaries. Recalling her awkward attempts at coolness during her childhood, Sabatini Sloan evokes Thelonious Monk’s stage persona as a metaphor for blackness. Through the conceptual art of Adrian Piper, the author is able to understand what is so quietly menacing about the sharp, clean lines of an art gallery where she works as an assistant. The result is a compelling meditation on identity and representation.

ADV Po field trip to the UofA PO CENTER - Ilya Kaminsky

something else, really.  i stood in line & had my book signed.  praises be NAPOMO & poetry classes & field trips & readings & all & more.

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

on N P R this morn : Accidental Racist?--I'm unsure about this title but I am more unsure why folks find this so "controversial." Nothing in this song is shocking, really, & I was raised in the "Southland"--really it's just a poorly written song with a title bent on eliciting a reaction, for better or worse. I've heard Paisley's music & he's usually much better than this. Folks need more & better tolerance, especially in the South, though RACE is an issue everywhere, is not just a southern problem. The genre of music can spread this message more than any other medium in the US. Nothing here should be so shocking though (to anyone)...it is 2013.

Brad Paisley has released a new song and it is a controversial one, to say the least.

Called "Accidental Racist," the song has Paisley wearing a shirt adorned with the Confederate flag and claiming that he is "caught between Southern pride and Southern blame."
"I’m just a white man comin’ to you from the Southland / Tryin’ to understand what it’s like not to be / I’m proud of where I’m from but not everything we’ve done / And it ain’t like you and me can rewrite history," Paisley sings. "Our generation didn’t start this nation / We’re still pickin’ up the pieces, walkin’ on eggshells, fightin’ over yesterday."
"Accidental Racist," which features a verse from LL Cool J, goes on to address Reconstruction and attempts to relate as Paisley croons, "I try to put myself in your shoes and that’s a good place to begin / But it ain’t like I can walk a mile in someone else’s skin."
LL Cool J joins the song to rap, "Dear Mr. White Man, I wish you understood / What the world is really like when you’re livin’ in the hood / Just because my pants are saggin’ doesn’t mean I’m up to no good / You should try to get to know me, I really wish you would / Now my chains are gold but I’m still misunderstood."
The song has sparked a strong reaction from listeners, many of whom were shocked by the lyrics. Listen to the song above, and click through below to read some listeners' reactions to "Accidental Racist."


we've had apocalyptic winds in tucson today upwards of 35 mph.  it's brought rain, i know my flowers are happy. everything smells of spring creasote, i've finished a weekend full of grading + gym so as to break monotony of grade; my life is my own again, i had a movie nite.  both were good & not-good in ways.

here is my most beautiful backyard in full bloom & glow.

beasts of the southern wild - this shot is my favorite, naturally.

this movie made me sad.

Saturday, April 6, 2013


Ralph is teaching me to throw the ole rope around


my sweet big sissy // even then i looked up to no good

Tuesday, April 2, 2013



Tapestry of rough hidden mindset
Of mistake—woman’s only
Garment dressed off asked off
And none other than the paint she
Rode off. Pen she pens it in
Pen part of the ark part of the
Foods that warn off hunger
One being a green apple one
Being apple cider vinegar. “Loves
To drink it,” she says someone
Does. She hewn in the light.
When he is in the bed it
Is difficult to rise, skinks be
In the trees and thought mind
Trimming her all up. Warned
About the large piece of art over the bed
The large piece of armadillo after
The fall the rib the garden hosed.

Renee Angle resides in Tucson, Arizona where she works for The University of Arizona Poetry Center. Her poems have been published in DiagramPractice New Art + WritingSonora ReviewEOAGHI'll Drown My Book: Conceptual Writing By Women, and in the chapbook Lucy Design in the Papal Flea (dancing girl press).

c r e a t e / the g r e e n day of april / tumamoc tacos a lil work / here's grita in the shade / upper 80s desert Mon