wish you were here

So I came down to the coffeehouse to get some work done before going to the gym later. And they have the State of the Union on. Maybe looking at W’s mug will give me some good ideas for a post-apocalyptic America. RFID chips, anyone? (For you kids playing the home game, those are those little pesky ID chips that you can, you know, stick on passports, or insert subcutaneously for sport.)

Things on my mind lately, that I should be blogging about, but would rather be working on a new story idea and poetry instead: not labelling myself a feminist, but being a poet for women’s empowerment, yet working at a place that objectifies women; working out is making me feel good, but why am I so worried about the scale?; why upping my nights alone (because people are moving, working, etc., so not as much hanging) is a good thing because I’m writing; and why that’s a bad thing because when I write, I’m a headphones-on, the rest-of-the-world-off kind of girl (which means there’s not a whole lot of mingling going on)…

…and I sent out some agent packages yesterday. They are out there. Do me a favor and send some collective “Kari’s a good writer and deserves an advance” type of vibes to the general vicinity of New York in the next few months? Thanks.

I really don’t want to blog on my regular computer– she’s sick with a pop-up (and very annoying for productivity) virus. I really can’t get anything done on this computer, other than type little things here and there, transpose poems, and try to read emails.

I know where it’s coming from, so it’ll get fixed. But Jesus is it annoying. Did I mention it’s annoying?

I may not be doing a lot of blogging, but I have been working on stuff.

I have seen bluer eyes than yours
yes, even in the darkness
of your bedroom
I have seen darker than midnights
louder than phonecalls
during your fumbling fingers

and I used to shudder
at the thought of you
and now my hands just
shake
I will not be unbeautiful anymore
I am a woman loved
by human beings
who are better at it than you
before this life is over
I will resurrect
my father’s grin
and my mother’s eyes
because what else are you supposed to do
with luck than pass it along
for once in my life
I want to make something
in unconditional love
that isn’t made of chemicals
that isn’t made of dream

all I wanted
was a yes
a yes that was selfless
it was the kind of sound
I used to make to myself
before I allowed you entry

I mistranslated
what your tight embrace meant
I thought not being able to escape
mean that you didn’t want
to let me go

I want to walk
until my legs fail to carry me
to fall to the ground
and lying there look up at god
and tell her I’m sorry
for asking her for this

one day soon
I will stand at the altar
of my bathroom mirror
and worship that girl
when she says you are beautiful

and you used to thank me
every night
for understanding
but we played each other’s roles
in our little scenarios
as if our lines will make us sound
convinced
that the night
is at the window
ear pressed against the glass
and waiting for our breath to uncurl
like our limbs after rigor mortis

another familiar eulogy
like candleflames
lashing midnight smoke
across our fingers

and you don’t even love
your ancestors enough to want children
because they are a mirror more frightening
than anything you’ve been forced
to get on your knees for

in my life
I will make sure
that my mother’s eyes will smile again
in the mirror of a child
who tells me that I am beautiful

and you
will never be able
to look past the infinite loop
of stars
you have not names enough
for the ones who came before you

yes
I have seen eyes bluer than yours
bluer than my midnight sighs
because I once saw stars
in my own reflection
I saw a father’s smile
when I finally shined

you have no purpose
you have nothing
and gave me
nothing

but in this moment
I will quake
like the earth taking back
what is rightfully hers
my core
surrounded by heat
and liquid
will only now whisper eruptions

and you
will one day have legs
that will collapse
and you will have to answer
to a reflection
with nothing
to help you

I haven’t really been in the mood to write on here lately. Not that I’ve been feeling particularly down really, but just not into blogging this week.

Last night was beautiful, except for a guest appearance by someone that, well, made my hands shake in fury.

But. Big things are in the works. You just watch, kids.

Go Steelers. That’s all I have to say about that.

There’s something I’ve just now started to articulate in my mind, and I’m not sure why this didn’t make sense before. I really don’t like getting into conversations with strangers. I used to think that it was because I have a general distaste for people on the whole (I’m in Vegas, come on, people), but it’s starting to become clear to me lately that I just don’t want to talk to people. I don’t want to give them details, even if they’re mundane. On the whole, because I don’t like people, I somehow seem to step on the line (okay, mostly I throw up on it) about knowing what information to give to keep people talking to me– which harkens back to me wanting loads of attention: if you’re paying attention to me, I’m going to try and keep it as long as possible, even if that means I’ll have to find a way to politely get away from you, which usually means silence. I’m really good at being friendly with people that I don’t even like on first impression. I can’t seem to say anything right to the people I actually do want to talk a little more with.

Basically, I suppose, what I use to excuse away to being shy in some situations is just me not wanting to talk because I want to get out of these conversations as soon as possible. Which is shitty, because as a writer I should be as equally interested in all people’s stories. But let’s be real: there are people you see everyday, stranger or not, that you really don’t feel like hashing or re-hashing with.

I just can’t get over the fact that my Uncle Bobby is the fucking Mayor of Pittsburgh. He called me earlier tonight to let me know about how crazy the city is about today’s game. My brother and I will be spending it at the bestest Pittsburgh bar in Vegas: ours, Noreen’s. Named after my mother, who’s from Northern California, and rep’ed the 49′ers.

Big Ben, and The Bus, and Hines, and Randle El, et al., you bitches better do some shit for me today. I want my uncle to be making a bet with the mayor of Seattle for that fucking Super Bowl.

I dropped a couple of F-bombs. What.

I may write about the performance tonight, I may not. It was good. But I’m conflicted on the idea of people liking your poetry equating to buying books which I need to think about a little more.

So. It’s about time for a site overhawl. That’s a good thing. I’m doing one part of the site at a time, so I started with the front page first. I’m going through the rest of the site in bits and pieces, and I’ll probably do the blog last.

I’ve lost weight, and cut my hair, so redoing the site just seems like the next logical step. So excuse the dust.

I should also mention that I’ve been getting some pre-writing done, but I’ve been blanking on everything else.

Thinking about a lot of stuff. I know that’s a vague thing to say, but I really just don’t want to blog it. It seems inappropriate, somehow.

I’m thinking of overhawling some of the site. And a redesign of the blog. But that’s for later.

Today started off on a bad note: I completely forgot about the weekly staff meeting.

But it was productive: did some agent searching, and I’ll be gathering materials the rest of this week.

More later. Bed now.

I find it funny that some local poets who proclaim not to like slam because of its angstyness go to open mics dominated by angsty young poets? O, great Vegas dichotomy!

Had a feature this weekend. I’m not sure how to feel about doing gigs sometimes. I get great crowd response during and immediately after the poems, but I don’t get a few strangers telling me I’m good. Other poets had strangers telling them they were good. I’ve been getting a lot of people who do local productions lately wanting me on their rousters. In fact, for Monday I’ve been asked to open a show where they’re interviewing Saul Williams. Does that make me a poets’ poet?

Obviously, people want to give me exposure and opportunity, and I’m grateful beyond words can say for all of it. I know people are paying attention. Actually, the right kind of people are paying attention, as I have a busy month ahead of me with poetry performances. My poetry performing resume is pretty kickass (I’ll code that soon.) And I’m averaging a new piece about every month. I’m producing stuff. I actually may have enough material for a new chapbook by the summer, with the way I’m writing.

But. My goal. My goal is my fiction. Or screenwriting. I don’t want an agent to get me poetry gigs. Then again, maybe that resistance is what’s getting me poetry gigs. I’m not sure. I want an advance for fiction. It’s easy to get noticed for poetry. It’s not so easy to get noticed for fiction.

I have new ideas for stories. That’s a good thing. I want to keep working on fiction. And I’m cycling sentences. Which means I should stop typing.