Barfly

I hate places like this. Always full of wooden men with glass eyed stares. Always with their looks wondering about creamy thighs and hands with fate lines that end at tonight. They tower above me, these giants. I debate about crawling up under a shoe, like a scorpion. Flick my ankles out, a twitch. I call it dancing. Liz says I have no beat, no rhythm, no metro-known. She puts her hands on my hips, side to side, up and down. She calls this dancing. I call her my puppeteer. Pull my strings taut, fish for my joints, hooked under my armpits.

I say I need to get a drink. I leave Liz dancing with flies. I don’t like being touched there anyhow.

This bar is boring. Full of people, smoking, drinking, dancing. And not one of them doing a thing. Even the philosophers in the corner with spit drenched napkins are really just trying to get laid. Only the bar tenders with the tight hard bodies and tight black polo shirts to hide the sweat see how dull the night is. They pour drinks, like a factory, one shot one beer one drink split the orange split the lemon split the soda water. I want to go home. But Liz is laughing, trying to puppeteer someone else. I can see she got her second wind. I try to breath on my wrists, try to tell them to wake up. But I just get a lungful of germs.


Notes:

Whoo-wee. It feels good to get a post up. Taking August off of work to do more portfolio work. Obvs, this piece is super unfinished, but it's a start.

Zombie

Eeek... Sorry for the lack of updates (again.)

Tomorrow, I will try to post a vlog of the piece I did for my reading. Thanks to all of you who made it out.

In other news, I'm taking the month of August off to finish up my rough draft of my portfolio. Double eeek.

Edits for Friday

Hey All,

Anyone want to help me with edits for the Friday reading? Comment or email me.

hearts&flowers,

dizzyfemme

Blood Moon (except not really)

Hey All.

Writing is going well. I am working on a short story for my portfolio and I'm experimenting with a new voice. It's more straight forward, with an emphasis on plot and character development. Usually I just let the language dictate what will happen, but I'm struggling with the idea that writing should just be shimmery prose. Certainly, I want to keep my fidelity to the primacy of language, but I think for first drafts I should focus on the plot. Integrating a strong plot and characters, written in a more traditional, straight-forward way but at the same time include poetic elements could prove to be a tricky balance to strike. I think I want to strive for interesting twists of words.

Anyway....

It looks like I'll be doing a 10 minute reading at the Brannigan for the "AmeriCorps: The Art of Service" show during the ramble. July 1st. When I know the time, I'll post it on here. So, if you're in the Las Cruces area, please do come check it out.

EDIT:

Here is the link for the Facebook event.

Be well.

dizzyfemme

Quick Update

Hey all.

Sorry for the lack of updates as of late. I'm working on The All Important Graduate School Portfolio, which I may or may not post sections on the blog. I do want to keep doing writing exercises, so perhaps I'll post those.

Be well.
dizzyfemme

"Yard work"

The sun struck sweat thick on my neck. Desert noonday and I’m out here burning leaves. But I got a hair up my ass to do it. So I did. A few months till moving and brush needed to be cleared. Took me a few times to strike the fire machine and work, but it came. Wind moves softly, delicately, like hands outstretched twirling in long skirts. Kicks up ash like snowflakes, sends smoke in my eyes, in my throat.

I turn to the porch to sit. I suddenly have the urge to smoke a cigarette, even though it’s been years. I turn the lighter over in my hand. I imagine the nicotine calm. But I’ve got none. I dig my hands deep into my pockets, letting them rest. I have to keep checking for blisters. Got to go easy on my hands. Dirt is ok though. Earth. But not mud. The rain doesn’t come here.


To be continued...

blurb

"Gossamer Girl in Garden"


I try to thread the pieces together. Make the string stick. But mud keeps getting stuck in my teeth, in my jaws. I spend my days eating dirt, oranges—pick the ants off the pits of my knees. Passersby’s tell me to start making mandalas, tell me it will be better if I just echo the stars. I am in no mood to listen to the dead. I listen to white ladies debate other white ladies about the effectiveness of sun block. I listen to panting dogs, to cigarettes hitting the sidewalk, of fucking and sucking. I wish I could grow spinnerets out of my ass and weave these pieces together. I try but shit just comes out instead.




Comments: Just kind of rolled this out in a few minutes. Not really sure how to end it--I don't really like that last line. I started to get more graphic with scatological references, but it just seemed too trite. I suppose this is my teen girl emo post? "Dear Journal, Mood: Pathetic"