Bay Area Peoples, Come see me read with Quiet Lightning, 8PM at Oakstop, for the last leg of Oakland’s BeastCrawl on JULY 12!!

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#Amtrak Residency – Notes from the California Zephyr

In honor of Amtrak’s recent plans to create a writing residency in the context of inter-America train travel,

(thanks to writers Zach Seward and Jessica Gross, in cahoots with Amtrak’s social media reps. Check out thefull article here:

I am posting my own treasured testament to the pleasure and “conductivity” of writing on the rails. The 3 haibun below (haibun come to us from Japan and are a real traveler’s form – just think of Basho) come from the slew of notes I took during a 3-day Amtrak trip from New York to California. For myself and for many writers, the train is a prized limbic space, a vessel for the imagination. These poems display the American countryside as viewed through that lens. 


Notes From the California Zephyr

1. Iowa

The oceanic expanse of land outside my window is horizontal vertigo, threatening to swallow the islands of suburbia that pass by in a blink. Surely, for the people who live here, for those who tend the fields and travel the thin dirt roads, this land is familiar. But from my passing dreamer’s view, the wideness of it is primitive, a sense of existence before the confining geometry of cities, when we were at home amid the sweeping fields and forests.

how did it feel?

a simple hut

amid such exposure

2. Colorado

Near Granby we hook up with the river and follow it down into the canyons. There are no roads here and the only other humans around are the river rafters with their “dubious behavior,” as the conductor warns, otherwise known as the “Colorado salute.” The train rides intimately up against the inner walls of the lower canyon so that the view is one from deep within a pocket of the earth–rugged burnt red against bright cornflower, with cumulus white moving in and out the corridor of sky. On some frequency beyond sound I hear the voice of slow, violent rock formations carving the earth as they frame the sky. I relax.

but oh the workers

who risked their lives

hammering down the rails

3. Utah

I would have let this place go by as a smudge of light brown were it not for the burnt red hues of rock now glowing like mahogany beneath a pink and purple sky, removing me from all notions of being in “my country.” Another planet, this land does not seem as though it could “belong” to anyone—it is even more wide open than the plains. The lowering sun blazes orange streaks and black shadows down across gray sandstone mesas, accentuating each crevice and fold of their bulbous, melted forms. Sage brush sags in the fading light. Distant buttes meet the sky. Utah—the painting goes by like the surface of Mars, or like that of the pure West—desolate, beautiful, and alive.

then suddenly,

a stop sign

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Quiet Lightning Reading Series

Quiet Lightning Reading

It’s Litquake in San Francisco! Come see me read at the Conservatory of Flowers for the 50th anniversary of the Quiet Lightning reading series! This Monday, October 14th. Show at 7:30, doors at 6:45.

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Notes from Jane Hirshfield’s Lecture at the Napa Valley Writer’s Conference!

On Telling the Truth but Telling it Slant

  1. Write a poem to trick yourself into an exposé you wouldn’t usually make.
  2. Write a poem to make a spell that breaks a spell that already fixes us.
  3. Write a poem that breaks through the limiting, barricaded frontiers of our ordinary self-knowledge.
  4. Write in a way that is roundabout, meandering.
  5. Alter the landscape of the given. Skew ordinary perceptions of truth.
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On the Origins of Spoken Language

Early on in the animal we call man, some impulse sent a shudder upward from the abdomen, breath vibrating vocal chords into a spasm of sound. We may call this sound voice, and the impulse, emotion, a feeling so strong it spilled over into the heard world on a primal flow of vowels.

Emotion rides on a river of vowels.

Today consonants chart complicated maps, pinning each sound into a place of reason, molding the vowels into words. The city of the mind grows, our modern tongues laden with the scrims of intellect. Do ancient languages echo more clearly with the primal howls?

Native speakers, what song rises in you?

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On Consonants, Vowels, and Diphthongs

To interrupt the stream of vowels is profound, is violent, repressive, and necessary. Glottal stops like “k” and “t” sever the breath, tighten the belly, clench the mouth, like water crashing on walls of rock.

Hard consonants cut the emotion off, while the soft ones do not obstruct it. “N”s and “l”s are smooth like boulders the water curves around.

Diphthongs are gliding vowel sounds that gently inflect emotion, wringing it out, the way grief bends gradually into acceptance of loss.

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The Poem Is A Score

Hooray for audio poems! My audio poem “Free” has just been published in the current issue of In Stereo Press. You can find it here:

Before landing in its final digs as an audio file, this poem went through several iterations, including a performance in which I choreographed movement to go along with the words. Something about this poem was always shouting to be wrung through the mechanisms of a different form. Sometimes, you’ve got to pass the potato from one medium to the next. Getting on Garage Band and turning the poem into an audio piece was FUN. I realized how the words on the page can serve as a scaffolding for a performance that brings them to more life. In Stereo has published the written piece along with the audio, so you can see just what happened to the poem when I put the voice and some digital editing to the task. As I see it now, the written poem was just the score, while the audio is the thing itself.

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Dear Escapists,

There should be a word to describe worlds discovered beyond the edges of the known. Sometimes places in cities feel like that–streets we never go beyond until we do and discover neighborhoods were we could imagine ourselves living. For wanderlusters, foreign cultures are only exotic until they have gotten to know them. With relationships it’s no different. We seek the other, we seek without, and when we get it, it becomes familiar. Out has lead us straight back in, straight back to ourselves.

All transformations conform to the hourglass shape. Those who crave escape aim toward the crux but never cross it. Indeed, the attainment of desire may be a precipice no less fearful than the horizon line at the edge of the earth when people thought the world was flat. Escapists fear the line. Thus their world is flat. But the hero’s journey is to reach the horizon and discover what lies beyond it. To know that possession of one’s desires is not an endpoint but a catalyst. Dear escapists, know this: it is what you want.


One who has crossed

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