I really love yoga, and I swear it keeps my head straight and I don’t know what I’d do without it. But I’m really irked by pop-performance-yoga culture, it’s so annoying. That said, I definitely do the fuck out of some yoga. I just, like, don’t have the beads or whatever. I like to be…
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I am deep in some poems, though not as deep as I’d like to be (or rather, I have to come up for air and work and coffee and friendship and such). I’m reading and rereading Diving into the Wreck by Adrienne Rich and I looked at this amazing piece of artwork (above) up close…
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I’m running around like a ghost with a poem stuck in her throat. I’ve been waking up with fragments of really boring, everyday dreams: germinating seeds to plant, plausible emails from jerks, dreams that aren’t all that distinct from reality. Jeez. Can’t catch a break. Because I don’t want to be the sort of person who writes yoga poems,…
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