Collaborations, lectures, and nightmare politics

Republicans can kiss.my.ass on Main Street, for all I care, at this point. They're nothing but a shitstain on the entire world. Look at this video of a father being detained by ICE. Then there's the douchecanoe Steve King, expounding on his theories of racial purity. Seriously, fuck that guy and any Republican who is not furiously denouncing him. But wait, maybe they're all too busy fretting over how their corporate pals can benefit from President Bannon's imminent demolition of the Executive Branch

In the face of this macro hell and some other personal dumpster fires. how in the world do I approach my writing? With a combination of trepidation, gusto, terror, and ambivalence. I mean, I want to write words that address the utter void gaping in front of us, but all I can manage to address is material at the personal level. There's a person I love. Another few persons I love. A ghost who won't go away. Lost children. Parallels among my loved ones, strange knots and coincidences that feel as if the world is trying to talk to me (VOID, it says). And sometimes I hang onto people like a drowning woman clings to a chunk of styrofoam on roiling garbage seas. 

in light of all this, I go to work. where I help working people access education, information, community resources, and literature/art. I sit with kids and make buttons and Perler bead crafts. I teach kids how to code their initials in some beads and wear that as a bracelet. I order diverse books for my library. Squinting at the computer screen, I wonder when I'll finally go blind because of my eye problems. I worry. I practice denial. I take a baked chicken to my friend who hates whole chicken. I sit with others in their pain and I fucking squirm through it & pretend that I'm stable. I try to solve problems. I am annoying. 

While bobbing around in the Beautiful Hurt Ocean, I think of poems and politics, and I wonder about my role as poet laureate of my city. On Sunday, April 9, I'm giving a talk at the Carnegie Center for the Arts in Turlock on the topic of poetry and resistance in the age of Trump. I'm working on an idea to put poetry inside of bags of bread sold by Alchemy Bread Co. I will write Poems on the Spot at the Modesto Library on April 7, and I want to start a small poetry and art zine. Stay tuned.

Meanwhile, wave at me from your dinghy. 

Poetry, politics, resistance

I've been hard at work kicking ass at my public library, alternately agonizing over and reveling in love, being a mean mom, and planning a Writers Resist event for January 15 with Elizabeth Sousa and Shanyn Vitti Avila, two local organizers and all-around nasty bishes who get shit done. 

I'm excited that our event will feature musicians Patty Castillo Davis and Mattea Overstreet as well as almost 30 local writers, teachers, and journalists speaking out for a free, just, and compassionate society. Very excited to hear Lillian Vallee, Gillian Wegener, Sam Pierstorff, Alexys Rushing, Summer Krafft, Manny Moreno (and many more) read their work and the work of others as a way to reclaim the notion of democracy and make it about inclusion, equality, fairness, freedom of expression, truth-valuing, and compassion rather than the cynicism and other bullshit that has come to characterize political discourse in the wake of the alternate-reality presidential campaign shitshow. 

I'll be emceeing. Most fun thing right now involves making a strong playlist of anti-fascist tunes to open and close the readings.

We'll be raising money for the Modesto Peace-Life Center and will offer information from the NAACP & the Peace-Life Center. Trying to get Planned Parenthood and other nonprofits on board as well. 

Our Facebook page has more details. Onward! 

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Hello to your new poet lariat

I don't know how it's possible, but somehow I'm the poet laureate of Modesto! I was appointed in July and read my first poem during a City Council meeting in September. Here it is: 

Prayer for You, On the Way to Wherever You’re Going

While you’re on your way to wherever you are going,

make time for interesting civic slogans,

kind tones of voice from your offspring,

and tender pork chops at dinner, as you wait

for those children to grow;

 

and on your way, don’t forget

to wave at the passing cars, the ’62 Rambler Ambassadors,

the ’57 Chevy Impalas—lowered or not—the ’49 Chevy pickup

with the two-tone paint job and its wine press in the wood-slat bed

on which you chipped your front tooth;

 

meanwhile, on your way to being an adult in Modesto,

don’t forget to stand at the side of the street

watching the veterans parade by,

the group ever-smaller year by passing year—

and to think about what that means;

 

and on the way to wherever your route ends, remember  

the urban forestry division and its cherry-pickers taking crews up high,

clearing out the mistletoe taking hold in your soul. It roots

 to your higher self, takes in your exhalations

and thrives.

 

And on the way to wherever you are going,

don’t forget to design the official flag of your being.

Do it with your own brand of thinking, all of the

small sadnesses mixed with triumph, your flag waving

in the same air that we breathe, here in Modesto—

 

And while you are on the way

to wherever you are going, bless each face you meet,

the creases at the bottom corners of both eyes; bless

the line of the lips where they meet. Curve your own mouth

into a shape, a symbol, the flag of this singular moment,

 

when you meet your neighbors at every corner—in the Virginia Corridor,

in Dry Creek; you are here in this moment, you fill it, are filled;

you are firmly twined around the tree trunk of time. And so,

on the way to wherever you are going, you find yourself

always arriving here, where you were, where you are.  

 

Note: I recall that when my family and I moved here from the Bay Area in the late 70s, Modesto’s slogan (perhaps a Chamber of Commerce-created slogan) seemed to be a phrase along the lines of Modesto: We’re on the Way to Wherever You’re Going. In this poem, I work with that slogan, which might be true only in my memory’s imagination. As an adult who has now lived in Modesto for the past 21 years after leaving for good back in my college days, I’m fascinated by the idea of a city—any city, really, but especially one’s hometown—as both a transitory and a permanent place, a place where one projects one’s own desires, regrets, and hopes. 

 

John Shoptaw; alkali sinks as toxic depressions

The Northern Californa Book Awards ceremony on May 15 was essentially a delightful family outing featuring 2% poetry and 98% military-grade shopping. My sister Dena and daughter Demi accompanied me to cheer me on. Mostly, however, they tolerated the 2 hours in the Koret Auditorium so that we might spend our time doing what they really wanted to do: shop at Macy's. Nothing like family to remind me that I and my poetry are merely stepping stones on the path of capitalist indulgence.  

One of the many surprises was seeing the PowerPoint that announced my nomination: the commentator's assertion that the alkali sink of my title was more like a toxic depression was an astoundingly strong comment on the overall tone and setting of much of the work in my book. They get me. 

The other surprise was, of course, how fucking LOW the stalls are at the SF Public Library. (Hello; I SEE YOU.) 

So I didn't win the award (Cal professor and ecopoet extraordinaire John Shoptaw did) , but I was utterly & nerdishly gaga that my sweet little Alkali Sink shared the same stage as books by Gary Snyder, Juan Felipe Herrera, Ellery Aker, and Joshua Clover. Those people are serious, big poets. I am a woman from Modesto. Thank you, wonderful dark unknowable chasm of universe, for this delight.