Yours in key phrases such as: she leaps off the page, edgy environment…, distinctive writing, and, …a unique trait that I think readers will latch onto…

PB.

I am not a monster.

I am: interested. Really interested.

Once, after a poetry reading I participated in, a giant approached me, dressed all in black, which made him seem disturbingly planetary. He shook my hand and tore into my poems, accusing me of being, I’m pretty sure, too narrative. He was adamant, and slightly wild, like a weary bear in a pit. I listened to him with a slight gape going on. A poet friend was suddenly at my side. He challenged the giant and disagreed with startling passion. I’d never seen him worked up before, my mild, poet friend. I stood between them, watching them argue, thinking: Right now? I’m happy. Later that night, I stayed up with the moon, pouring over the poems I’d read that evening. It was a productive session with my work.

Later today, I participate in the Second Sunday Poetry Series. Armed in concrete visual imagery, or not, I’m looking forward to reading my poems and listening to the poetry of Los Angeles locals. Community? In sprawling L.A.? Bring on the giants, narrative speculation, narrative poetry, the lyric and, hopefully, a strong cup of coffee.

Yours in metaphor and simile and absolutely no didactic poetry or poetry about pets (I promise—although there might be a poem about a horse, who shall remain nameless…),

PB

And then swear you’ll never use exclamation points again.

Luckily our part of the world seems to be entering a brief cooling trend. Hemet is notoriously hot. And, as if perversely, when waving goodbye to the sun across the flats, or from the front doors of that Applebees (Hemet gourmet)—pretty darn cold.

People protesting Scientology at the massive compound in Hemet. Yes. They have Scientology in Hemet as well as sloth bones.

Perhaps I will get a poem out of Hemet. Sigh. Not.

And, as you know, Hemet is famous for the Ramona Pageant, which my in-laws acted as ushers for one year, when my sleepless son was only 8 months old, and sleepless, and cranky, and definitely not into sitting in Hemet heat and viewing the Ramona Pageant, which was huge, and used many locals, who paraded across the amphitheatre in gorgeous, colorful costumes, there were horses cantering across the stage, maybe llamas, too, I don’t know, I was an extremely sleepless mother then, I do remember the actors had microphones, all the lovely cheesiness that is the Ramona Pageant easily heard, but also heard was my baby wailing in his Bjorn and so we left, drove back to the in-laws lovely home, trudged upstairs to our guestroom, tried to nap, then tried to nap in shifts and when that failed, utilized the patio and its kiddie pool and suddenly everyone returned from the Ramona Pageant and produced food like red chips and homemade chicken salsa and this drink called chardonnay and people fussed over our baby and were eager to hold him—-family. They always make Hemet’s unnerving barren-scape and occasional attacks on police by White Supremacists bearable.

O Hemet! I can’t sing of you, but might squeak a bit if you cough up a sloth bone for my son.

 

How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.
—Anne Frank

We tend to rotate which charities we give to monthly. Save The Children often tops the list. Also the Mae Tao Clinic located along the Thai-Burma border in Thailand—Dr. Cynthia is dedicated and committed and grateful for aid. Here at home I support a few local wildlife organizations, donate clothing and food to shelters and whenever I stop in for parakeet food at Kahoot’s, pause to stroke impossibly soft ears of baby bunnies waiting for homes, fervently telepathing to them with all the energy my heart possesses, Love, love, love you! I’m not sure what the deal is with the bunnies. But Kahoot’s always has them. I wish I could take them all home, but then there’d just be another mini-warren in the store the next day and besides, we have 3 cats, an enthusiastic Labrador and a parakeet fond of letting us know he exists and that’s about all I can handle pets-wise. Oh, bunnies. And fish in your bubbling tanks. And fiddler crabs endlessly waving. Oh, feeder fish! I’m sorry. I wish I could take you home, too. But not the tarantula. But maybe the snakes. Maybe not. But maybe. Perhaps I need to open my own wildlife sanctuary—in about 20 years. In the meantime, it’s Giving Day on the Ponderosa—do you know where your checkbook is (mine turned up in my riding boot, just glad it was found…), or your local feedstore filled with bunnies, or the local Salvation Army, or—crap, the pancakes are burning.

Yes, little white dog or cat over there in the corner–you stay where you are while she feeds the bunnies.

—

Right! Blank. Gone, because I didn’t write it down at the time I was soaping all those whatevers.

Lesson learned.

I was looking at Leroy, watching him think about calling everything off–his ears twitched and he swung his head weirdly to the right, because of me—and my Type A procrastination.

Look up.

I looked up—trees, that house perched precariously on Chatsworth’s pale boulders, blue blaze of sky—and squeezed my lower legs against Leroy’s stomach. My heels shot down in the stirrups and I went into that (for me) awkward 2 pt stance-in-the-saddle, the 2 pt that must be accomplished before actually jumping, which means using so much of your legs, it’s an interior explosion of focus and possibly pain and, if you’re “feeling it” successfully, a soul-rousting revelation of fitting, synching, with your horse.

Stop thinking.

A rocking horse left the earth. Arc-soared. Stardust and all-that- is-holy landed in a canter on the correct lead.

Good. (Ben doesn’t have to shout–his voice is a polite conversation over teacups through a magically self-adjusting mega-phone)

I reigned Leroy into a trot, lurching like a novice when the trot actually happened–damn! I was all red-faced and gaspy. Worried: Cavalia! I will never be you!

When Leroy and I returned to Ben’s corner of the ring, Ben said:  You just have to feel it.

Even if I wasn’t a writer, pets-keeper, struggling unicycle rider, mother and wife and diligent manager of Los Angeles traffic on all danger-filled freeways, I would know what Ben meant.

I nodded and turned Leroy to try the jump again.

When I feel “it”, “it” works, no matter the medium, genre, activity.

Luke–put up your visor.

She’s feeling it.

Not our doorstep, but love that kitty.

If each of us would only sweep our own doorstep, the whole world would be clean.   —Mother Teresa

A quote I’ve posted ad nauseam.

It’s not easy, focused sweeping. Constant practice is necessary (for me). There is no one I can hire to sweep for me. And I am so happy when I sweep and Super Girl my doorstep(s) into sparkling—I feel smart and powerful. But then gunk returns, some days absolutely by the minute, or a doorstep pops up from 1996, one I thought I’d scrubbed into a Rothko sort of easy modern—but there I am, cleaning it again, maybe with a sander and some heavy duty eco paint (light blue).

Before our literal doorstep, chimes sing and the hanging fern twirls in breezes (or harsh, desert-propelled winds) without falling off its hook and there’s a bench with a cheerful red cushion to sit on when removing your gardening or riding boots. My doorstep. My responsibility. Well, it’s scuffed and could use a sanding and a painting (white), but it’s clean and doesn’t smell like cat pee and it’s perfectly fine for a little boy to cross as he comes and goes with his Hot Wheels cars and Hero Factory figures. I removed the pair of black widows that used to live by our doorstep. I powerwashed cobwebs from the generic lintel.  As I stand before our doorstep, arm muscles flexing from holding bags filled with weekly groceries, I feel a little rush of accomplishment and—ease. Food is going in the fridge. Bills are paid. The little boy is at a school where he thrives. I have time to focus on my art, that whatchamacallit only I can achieve, despite (or because of) any doorsteps I may have neglected or swept to within an inch of their architecture over the years. The current doorstep has much promise (perhaps a fancy lintel one day) and it’s quiet here—no radio, no TV news, no distractions except for the occasional gakking pet. Hi Ho!

Bye-bye doorsteps of 1996, dearth doorstep of 2004, etc.

Happiness begins at home.

Phoenicopterus Jamesi

Trying to use a voucher for 3 free rides to Catalina Island and being told there’s no room on the boat by a severely rude someone you find it extremely difficult to dredge any compassion for simply because of their tone—noticing the pink flamingo under the potato vine tree thingy has tumbled due to the gardener—tsk-tsk-ing at pink wire legs askew in the air and finding out your son is #74 on the waiting list for the precious little charter elementary school you were convinced he would attend this Fall in this massive, eternally heated valley, and the sky stains that worrisome amber as winds roust May fires, the ocean someone else’s dream, the ever-gruesome sound of a maniac taking a mallet to glass jars filled with brains (smash, pound) has you

STOP

Sit in the sloppy shade from the potato vine tree thingy. Right the flamingo and pat its pink plastic as you inhale the Spa Land aroma from wildly happy lavender plants surrounding you (mixed with a hint of fire smoke). Think: my life is good, man. Say it out loud: my life is good, man. Say this: my life is like all the smashed brains in the world springing back into proper shape simultaneously, or like seasons sans fire-breathing winds tucked into them, or like gently rolling ocean (cobalt). Quickly: locate that bit of faith that’s bolstered you through those scary times in the last 5 years. There are (good) reasons why you don’t always get what you think you want. There are (even better) reasons why you are sometimes given windfalls you didn’t know you wanted, yet are eternally grateful for. Translation: inside that little faith-nucleus? Happiness. Non-fictionalized. Lavender-wild. Big. Filled with poems. No haiku, but not a problem. Really. And no sestinas or romance novels, but truly, no worries. And, you know, no porn or pantoums (OMG quatrains!). Or Martha Stewart commercials. But ‘old’ black and white movies, horses, little boys with big ideas and a house with a lived-in look (and running water and a dishwasher and laundry room and A GARDENER and—)

STOP

Think: F***ing A, man. Now say it out loud. F***ing A. Because sometimes it is cathartic to swear (if no little 5 year old mimics are around).

Do this: swear to remember certain things always worth remembering:

And, instantly, feel better.

(*%@*!)

Poetry

What a gift-packed month. Poetry has crammed my inbox daily. I went to a Rhapsodomancy reading at the Good Luck bar and listened to knock-you-off-your-feet lines from poets with poetry-spewing-volcanos where scalps should be. 1 day of NaPoWriMo left. So go on. Go write. You know you want to. Even if you did watch “Silver Linings Playbook” over the weekend and became all heated that Naomi Watts didn’t win the Oscar. I’m sure you also did something severely poem-inspiring—like take your son to the foggy beach, or stand on a sweetly tiled Juliet Balcony overlooking the side of the San Fernando Valley you never see, the side astonishing in trees, or you tried spicy, tandoori-style hard boiled eggs for the first time (with a glass of a startling malbec and even though you prefer chardonnay), or you had a nap. Good god. The nap! Go and write a poem about that.

Lines (I know: you can’t really do this—but I’m doing it anyway):

1. He knows I am a novice returned/for her purpose

2. Look: the face of each mountain is a tumbling sneer/in holy purple

3. Because to move felt like an invitation to chase; and why was the door/open in the first place

4. Snagged on the southside of the 101/miles from destiny

5. Summer is finer than Shakespeare, you said. Listen: everything/was mine to begin with

6. I viewed scandal as a privilege./My mistake

7. She plays schoolyard games with a lover we despise/because he is so obvious

8. We tend our wrist watches dawn to noon to twilight/marking the skies for simple signs/we share wordlessly, each to her owned/each owned similarly dealt/though discussion exposes/mixed wiring

9. May my bones knit/a cage around your frailty, glorious/glimmering cage—the bone cage—hugging/you, cream to curse

10. zzzzzz