Get in the practice

Surprise gladiolas came in

during the end of our 3 month

3 digit July heat wave

Spiked gladiators sprawled

and thrived in the sweat

Car Poem [WIP]

You and I chase the fingers West
towards home
They curve into the moon
Grasping at beams, out of reach

We made you a scarf during summer

These watery knuckle bones wrap down the row,

Kyle's loops.  They were made under the reading

arms, boughed under the weight of a howling

beatnik, who hissed, several decades too late, 

then moved to the city of fountains and 9to5.

The waves of rows moved on to Raven, who learned

to make knots in the wind, only for you.  Cindy

and Kokapeli pulled in the middle, Cody and I

and made up for the time between needle points.

Sunburned, two left hands, with the West Winds,

circle sitters, outdoor academics, we made you

a scarf while you made us weigh the leaves.

A little hummingbird hovered over me

Seriously, that just happened.  It was very interested in my laptop.

What days rival the days 

when your windows are open

They thrust sun in, let loose 

to play with 7 sets of slit-eyed

cats who play with Bast 

and forget your patient hands

A tight grasp of lover's fingers

A deer clasp holding cunt 

and sky together

kneel with muddy knees

forgive the toes wrapped

in earth worms

Let me have a lost day [WIC]

Let me seep through
the floor boards into
the grain and flow right
on through the knots

Melissa

Untitled [WIP]

I roll you under my tongue
a Southern Rock Python,
I start at your toes and work
my way up your thighs, I drag
my teeth in lines from your ankles
to your nestled clavicle

Passion [wip]

Passion

I’m uncomfortable with the word-.
It lacks meat, it lulls in juice, it falls flat
It’s not a steak, thick on the tongue, breaking
hot against the back of my throat, a tender,
twist of tendrils and muscle.
I can’t rip into it, gnashing teeth against flesh,
pushing it against the roof of my mouth
The preferred word is- as in rioting
as in London is burning in the riots as in
Did you buy mace, bear mace, not weak rape
mace because I am so hungry, so hungry
that my hands are shaking down to the ground
and I am so hungry.

It will not last the night

Hello, interwebs!

My name is Kirstin, Ms. Steitz, if you're nasty.  Seriously, I want to start this blog with earnest.  The past couple years have marked a long, dry spell in my writing life.  I dropped out of College my senior year, to the quiet dismay of my family and friends; but it was a good step for me.  I had reached a point of no return.  I was scared and hurt and barely able to make it through the day.  Assignments piled up, I skipped class like a jump-rope pro, and my bar tab was immense.  I was disillusioned with the academic industry and terrified that I just didn't have what it takes to be a "real writer".  I needed to move on and find a place where I could be myself and have a full nights sleep more than 2 weeks out of the year.  After almost a decade of classes and work, I needed to focus on improving my life, so I quit.

During this lull, I tried to publish my poetry.  I tried to keep writing- but every rejection letter was a knot in my stomach.  I wasn't strong enough to keep submitting and received very little feedback from editors.

A year after I quit school, my mentor passed away.  The woman who had literally informed almost every aspect of my literary and spiritual life for the past 9 years was diagnosed with cancer and left us very quickly.  It was a quick, excruciating and fraught exit from our lives.  It tumbled down and crushed me.  Her passing sent me into a spiral.  I would sit in front of a notebook or laptop and stare at the screen, unable to find words.  Her passing marked an end to my writing.  It was as if the universe said "Oh, hey!  Silly girl, this writing thing is a fluke."

So I watched my friends and former partners-in-crime go on to publish, to become teachers and Directors, and to successfully pursue their craft.  I cheered them on (and still do!) but mourned the little deaths of my made-up alphabet.

So this blog is my apology to myself.


Dear imagination,
I have forsaken thee.  I have neglected you and spit on you.  I have lost you in my fear.

I started writing when I was wee.  I started writing around the things I wanted to say because I didn't know how to say them- then I wrote around them because saying things directly never relays the meaning, and I finally knew that.

I'm sorry.  Here's a cookie.  Let's be friends again?

love and kisses,
Kirstin