musings of a psychedelic punk rock renaissance yogini and late-blooming athlete
Meanwhile, I was moseying along on my bicycle in this little mountain town – I found myself transported back to the east village – the food, the smells, the people, the clothes, the bookstores, the creative collaboration. Ah. The best of both worlds.
Read MoreHumid Breath is pulled from my lungs. My throat goes hollow every time a howling fire truck wails down the street. My throat goes hollow, I could swallow those anxious faces peering from the fire truck wailing down the street. It would be safer in my mouth— I could swallow those anxious faces peering, despite […]
Read MoreSo the other day, I almost wept when I watched this video. I know, weird, it’s of a woman talking about lyric poetry and flarf in her kitchen. But she also talks about poetic forms as a response to the absurdity and insanity of our world, a way to cope with the craziness that we live in—and if a creative response isn’t a positive one, I don’t know what is.
Read More“Nighty night, little bunny rabbit.” And we all go to sleep, dream, drip. My heart is racing. I am going to forget about men altogether right now and just create create create. I am miserable and a fiend, a total hyperactive freak. And the Goddess is not coming out. The Goddess is shrinking under me. […]
Read MoreFascinating interview covering topics of homosexuality, women, writing, aging . . . Mr. Crisp used to have breakfast frequently at a restaurant I worked at in the East Village. He was very generous.
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