Saturday, September 20, 2014

Couch arm yoga vanity

In which I am a manatee (soon I will meet Amm Waldman!)  dressed to go to a nightclub called Buckets in a strip mall. It both is and is not hard to see myself like this, flying floating in couch arm yoga. Sunaura Taylor did a self-portrait of herself side-by-side with manatee. She is someone back in California I would've liked to have gotten to know better. After so many travels, I am getting closer to being myself.

My mom, pictured below, on her birthday at Buckets.

Sunday, September 7, 2014

and here we are

hi loves and doves, i can't stop (in the name of Al Green) using my blogs like they are Facebooks and my Facebooks like they are blogs and wishing Twitter had telepathy and being embarrassed to use hash tags. girls who do boys who do girls like their boys who do boys like their girls.

but anyway, my blogs are now websites, in particular, the body poetik, formally, Write to Connect. much of me will be there, so if you miss me, go to there. if you ant to do poetry in the pool, sex in the meditation room, sensuality in the sickbed, the postmodern dance beyond disability, visit thee too.

theres another website to, for my underground erotic performance art research work, which is a nice way of saying...a lot of things. you can ask me about it, and by you, i mean, only you know who you are.]

i love you, gorgeous.

Saturday, August 23, 2014

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

familia as performers, part 1: Danny DiPietra and The Headlights

Discovered that a video of my dad's band, The Headlights, Tampa roots-rock phenomes circa the early to mid 90's, now lives on YouTube. I think this video was taken before they were chosen to tour with Roger McGuinn (of the Byrds).

I forgot how dreamy Steve Robinson was/is, how Steve Connelly makes me feel personally connected to Neil Young and Tom Petty--a timbre that shapes so much of my sensibility. what a character Scott Dempster is. And then,  there's Danny DiPietra on the drums (video camera focuses on him most about 16 minutes in). Swimming in his drum element, perfect.

Oh yes, and--that last song Steve R. singes, "Unicorns and Rainbows"--helps me to realize why I failed at writing a concept-essay-poem for the new Gurlesque anthology. Because I did grow up with the Gurlesque, but it wash;t just or all about girls for me.

And here is a link to their performance with McGuinn on The Tonight Show. Dad does a Mary Tyler Moore ear tug at the end, to tell the family on the other side of the TV, far from LA, that he loves us.

Friday, August 1, 2014

dwtn St. Petersburg, FL

thinking of Rebecca Solnit's Hollow City: The Siege of San Francisco and the Crisis of American Urbanism, being here to watch this swallowing sweltering suburb pivot into upscale urban chic...and wondering if there is any way to catch this wave and do I want to, having swum out of SF?

but an urban landscape, near warm water, is what gives me the most basic mobility.

did ze take them off and swim out to an rickety old mini yacht or abandon them for...what? these are not what i would call FL summer shoes--black, platform, Mary-chancletas--and i love that they have been left to live here.

Saturday, July 26, 2014

P.O.D. The Beautiful Pigeon Fancier, a film written by Gabo

I just found out that Gabriel Garcia Marquez died on April 17, 2014. In recent years, from time to time, I would do an anxious Google search, to see if he had passed, because I knew he was in ill health.
But I was not searching for that today. I was looking for an image of the cover of Memories of My Melancholy Whores. Remembering a connection between that book and the many ecstatic mornings in sex school when i spent meditating and sobbing about the viscera that binds sex and death. This would've been right around April 17, 2014. It was his last book, and it gave me a kind of wild and grounding permission.

 Cien Anos de Soledad game me permission also--when I read it my last year in high school. When I was ugly and alone and hid in the bleachers to read during lunch. When my 12th English teacher (who was into Joseph Campbell and archetypes) was so enamored of me reading that book that he allowed me to write poetry about it in lieu of taking all major exams. One Hundred Years of Solitude solidified everything I knew about intimacy, both familial and sexual, about time and its shape, and the fundamental basis of reality as the marvelous, often horrific, sensual.

And here is this woman, he met in in an airport once, who I only hope is telling a true story--though that never really matters.

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Flordacana july 2014

i wonder if these images just translate paradise to people. this light is paradise, and the filthy, but pure, yes pure, pee-warm Gulf.  but it is also remiss, outdated, nascent, impoverished and glutted to demise.

a long beach is a healthy beach, but in my body, no place traversable, the only place traversable for the physically disabled, Petra and Neil, come here and do Salamander!

sometimes i think of starting a beach access program here, but i'm still in hiding, still brooding on what can be done in the nonprofit industrial complex.

there was the water today and the light and the missing everyone, including people i have not or might not meet, yet. sending this orange-pink.

Real Time Archive