Bruce Covey and I stayed up until 4 a.m. giggling and talking about you.

Bruce dropped juicy bombshell after bombshell and would end each tale with "and don't put that on your blog!"

So your not knowing any of these details is all his doing, not mine.

I would have posted it -- all of it.

If You Want BIG Money. . .

. . . you're gonna have to take off your underpants.

Pictures from last night's Burlesque Poetry Hour.

note: fixed link to go to correct page

Tonight

Later this afternoon Gideon and I will pick up Bruce Covey from the airport. Bruce is reading tonight with Kim Roberts and David McAleavey at the Burlesque Poetry Hour.

What will they be stripping off for auction? I have no idea, but last month somebody got $42 for her thong.

Better bring lots of cash -- you never know, you might HAVE to own something.

The Dark Room at Bar Rouge
1315 16th Street NW Washington, DC
8 p.m.

This Week at No Tell

Erik Sweet laughs on the corner in his mind thinking of all of the people he used to know this week at No Tell Motel.

God Damn Pajama Party

I am my own biggest pain in the ass.

Hey, let's throw a pajama party and insist everyone shows up in their PJs! It'll be great.

I owns lots of bedtime clothing, gowns (long and short, some with matching robes), flannel pants (night-time body armor), camisoles, flimsy, sheer -- you name it. As host of this party, I want something new and special for the occasion, but I can't find it. It needs to be sexy -- but it also needs to keep my goodies under wrap. The last thing I want is a pic of one of my nips to make it on someone's blog. That would have been OK a few years ago, but really, I'm somebody's mother now.

The No Tell Motel Pajama Party is Saturday, March 11 -- starting at 9 p.m. You're invited. It'll be held at a private residence 4 miles from the AWP conference hotel. Come by the No Tell Motel table (I'll be playing footsies with the very alluring editors from The Canary) at the book fair for directions -- or backchannel.

Yes, you're expected to wear pajamas. Yes, if you show up in street clothes, we'll tackle and strip you down to your skivies.

miPOradio: The Weekend Show

Reading this weekend:

Gabriel Gudding, Aaron Belz, Claudia Grinnell, AnnMarie Eldon and John Korn
Featuring an intro to The Bedside Guide To No Tell Motel
Music by David Conley

On iTunes

Numbers

For those of you who have sold books at the AWP bookfair -- how many books do you typically sell? I know journals don't sell in the high numbers -- but I've been told books do a lot better. I'm trying to figure out how many Bedside Guides to bring. Obviously I want to bring enough so I don't sell out early, but I also don't want to have to ship or lug 50 books back home.

It's Vulnerability Day

Over the past day I've been e-mailing with Jon L. about vulnerability in poems and now I just read this at Teresa's -- and that's not quite the discussion I've been having with Jon, but furthers my belief that outside influences are indeed influencing. I go the astrology route -- but I'm flaky like that.

There's something making poets go ape-shit (well, more ape-shit than normal).

I've been working on my second my manuscript for the past two years (at glacier speed) and as it gets closer to completion, it's clearly turning into something very vulnerable and exposed. That makes sense if I consider that for the past 2 1/2 years I've been feeling the most vulnerable since I was a child. Maybe I've always felt this way but was able to mask it with anger or disgust or sarcasm or whatever. The manuscript isn't autobiographical -- it doesn't mention or allude to my "accident" that started it all -- 2 1/2 years ago -- after being motivated by Dr. Phil to take control over my life -- I put on my cute Diesel sneakers (instead of my Nike cross-trainers) and decided to take a long power walk. About a quarter mile from my house I saw a woman pushing her baby on a swing, distracted I didn't notice there was a LEAF on the path -- I slipped and fell, hit my head very hard, fractured my elbow and sprained my ankle. I'd never broke a bone before. I didn't realize I had. As I hobbled back home (a minor triumph considering how hurt I was) I heard a strange voice -- it took me almost a minute before I realized the voice was my OWN. I was muttering -- unintentionally, unconsciously, in agony. That was kind of freaky -- and later both TB and Chris confirmed that when I'm angry I sometimes mutter to myself -- spooky . . .

Anyhow, it's good I had my accident, because not only did it beckon a whole slew of incidents drawing out my newly vulnerable sensibility (hello pregnancy in the ninth month and newborn baby) -- it's also how I discovered poetry blogs. Trapped on my sofa, barely able to type, unable to bead, unable to walk -- I found Gabe Gudding's after recently reading In Defense of Poetry and was intrigued. He posted something that I considered a "black list" of sorts (a claim he refuted) and I e-mailed him about it. And there, I had a discussion with another poet and it wasn't some ass-kissing "Oh I really loved your book" e-mail. I kind of chided him -- something I probably wouldn't have done if his blog didn't make himself vulnerable to such a thing. Sidenote: I met Gabe for the first time last summer and I asked him what he thought of my e-mail and he confirmed my suspicions: "I thought you were fucking nuts!"

I don't think I'm that different from most -- I come from a position that views vulnerability as weakness and who the hell wants to be weak? Now I'm hearing Patrick Swayze say "Can you see the fear?" -- at least I hope that's his voice and not my own.

But I'm reconsidering that -- especially in writing, but in other aspects as well. I think vulnerability can lead to openness and strength and I'm rethinking many of my new poems in a different way. And this blog is an exercise in vulnerability -- and sometimes it makes me cringe and some days I think I should hang it up and better use the time pushing Gideon into manhood by making him drink from that damn sippy cup.

The doctor gave a schedule and you're behind on everything. Chop chop!

Can Somebody Assist

Little Happy Booker, Jr.? A request for 8 line poem suggestions for a third grader to memorize.

Yoga Rage

I've experienced it --in my mind-- but I never peed on anybody.

Poem by Jon Leon

This appeared over the course of a few posts a while back on Lucipo. I like it when people put my name in poems. Makes me feel special. Or it has so far, at least. I probably wouldn't like a poem that said something like "Reb Livingston's ass is big enough to cook a turkey."

Improvisation on a Line by Reb Livingston

Eating candied suns on plutonian river
boat, choking
on the revenant mucus from your
middle copse. O cloister-fuck O
cloister-fuck. Dandelion me, holster
me, petal me. I am not the last
remaining innocent neon. Horse,
yes, explosions! Horse me, hmm.
And then my dick fell off.

In monasterial heat, battling
the continuous draught, O being-
unto, O weeping palms wet hush.
Orange the color of your adjunct
remissions. Torrid the want of rivers
wet coursing, coursing, coursing
twerry front tease. Cannot in reveries
channeling pwassions – seek pierrot's
flight in August's humid tantrums.
O terry not youse whose devastating
trials scream enjoy, aha!, being a slut.
Being-unto-blessed limit– no –being
unto heavens' welt crush.

Dichtung, and we fly with
the orchids. Your hummingbird
thighs mipping, addendums / knock.
Sleep sphincter sleep diptych.
Tireless whipping, yes!
spirited guile aerobic. Fainting's
awesome comminglers, purple
geso'd. Properly the sippy cup
together.

Not blithe to those women
whose beam talk
not gentler semen.
Argyle chappy, clapped dock.
More ferocious wolves in sheeps' coat.
Onward dash
into end parentheses,
into the brandied storehouses!
Hard vinegar hearts slippery,
I am hanging from your mouths –
painting these weighted mammaries.
O go down, go /
up. Irene Jacob is so sweaty-haired
huffing, puffing.


-- Jon Leon

Amy King knows what she likes.

Amy King knows a thing or two.

Amy King is the new MiPOesias Managing Poetry Editor.

Mark Your Calendar

Next week's Burlesque Poetry Hour is guaranteed to tease and please.

Readers: Bruce Covey, David McAleavey and Kim Roberts

Monday, February 27th, 8 p.m., Bar Rouge, Dupont Circle -- Bring cash cause these poets don't take American Express.


Gilda, making it happen (i.e. calling poor Lolita afterward and filling her in on the thong-eriffic details)

Just Thinking Out Loud

Ten years ago around this time I was addressing wedding invitations and I decided not to invite a friend. He wasn't returning my telephone calls and I assumed he was being a dickhead. This was uncharacteristic behavior for him and I knew he received my messages because his roommate confirmed it. So this friend was moved from the category of "friend" to that of "dickhead." My wedding came and went and I was so preoccupied with all the things going on in my own life, I didn't give him much thought. Two weeks after my first wedding anniversary I was sitting in the back row of a church staring into a sea of gray and white and blue and bald heads. My friend's funeral was packed with his parent's friends and probably every able-bodied senior citizen from his tiny hometown. Aside from the two friends who made the trip to Pennsylvania with me, there was only one other peer in attendence.

It wasn't just me he cut off from his life. It was most of his friends. I might have discovered this if I bothered to ask around. If I was persistent enough, I also might have discovered from the couple friends he kept close that he was dying of AIDS.

For years I've carried around a lot of guilt for thinking so negatively about him. For not making more of an effort. For being so petty and not even sending him an invitation.

I snubbed a dying friend for not returning 4 or 5 telephone calls.

But now I'm wondering if it wasn't better that way -- the way my friend seemed to prefer. Maybe he only had so much energy and inclination to deal with those closest. Maybe he wouldn't have appreciated my raising the flag to others. Maybe a wedding invitation would be one more hassle for him to figure out how to avoid.

Maybe this has very little to do with my friend at all. It's not like if I knew I could have done anything to prevent him dying. It's unlikely I there was anything I could do to "ease" his pain. I probably would have been sad and uncomfortable around him had I known -- maybe I would have been way more trouble than I was worth.

At the furneral -- among all those old people I wondered where on Earth were all of his friends, his fraternity brothers, the scores of people who would show up at his parties -- and I realized most of them probably had no idea at that point he died -- my major realization was the world is not divided into "friend" and "dickhead" and I was a very simple and self-absorbed person for considering it that way.

And now I wonder that in my attempts not be that same ninny, maybe I spend too much time thinking and mulling over all the possibilities and what-ifs -- perhaps this is just more about it being all about me. In my attempts to confer with others to get their takes and advice on situations, maybe I'm just using it as an excuse not to take full responsibility for own actions. "We all thought . . ." feels a lot better than "But I thought . . ."

See, I never want to have that "I should have done something (more) or (different)" feeling when it comes to family and friends. But how do you never screw up? And if I'm so occupied with not "feeling" a certain way -- how can I possibly figure out what the best thing really is?

This Week at No Tell

Matthew Langley is merry with a love-scene this week at No Tell Motel.

Whew, the festival of Gideon is officially over. It's back to the salt mines for him.

OK, Last Birthday Pics

What's a Unicorn-Dog?

"A unicorn-dog is only to be found among the most unreal creatures of the unknown universe. We are forever indebted to Allyssa Wolf and her mad infinite genius."

Recently Received

The Making of Collateral Beauty by Mark Yakich (Tupelo Press)

portraits : parables by Susan M. Schultz (Tinfish Limited Editions)

Just In: Parents Hold Suckiest Birthday Celebration Ever

Oh well, family will be over on Saturday for cupcakes, Maybe he'll like that better.

This Time Last Year

I was up all night in anticipation of Gideon's arrival. Didn't sleep one minute. The idea of baby consumed me. What a difference a year makes! The big plans for today -- open up the cards and gifts sent in the mail, birthday bath, measure his height and after his nap, we're taking him to a toy store to let him select his gift -- anything under $2! -- I'm betting he selects a stray straw off the floor. After that we'll take him to Don Pablos -- his favorite restaurant -- and will order his favorite meal -- a chicken soft taco. We'll ask the staff to bring over the giant sombrero and sing happy birthday and clap.

It'll either delight or scare the shit out of him.

Happy Birthday, Gideon! We hope you like crap.

My Poet Crush

on Amy Gerstler, now up at Beatrice.

You Can't Sin Here

I don't know if this is a Nevada or Tahoe law or just a rule at Harrah's casinos, but you can't swear at the tables anymore. What you can do is repeatedly thrust your groin in the air and shout about all the "fun" you'll be having with your "fiance" on Valentine's Day, but don't yell "fuck" or "shit" if your number doesn't come up. You'll get a warning from the dealer. Get uppity and they'll call the pit boss on your ass.

What really ruined it was how much that jackass looked like Jake Gyllenhaal -- albeit a puffy frat boy version.

E-mail is arriving

Send away.

Lulu Interview

You can hear it here -- my part begins about half way through the podcast.

"um . . . um . . . um" [cringe]

How about a nice printed interview -- one where I can slow down and think about my responses.

Reb's Tips for Valentine Success

Relax, take a bath, and clean those crevices!


And really, put some effort into your appearance -- it does matter.

Rubber ducky and ducky hair brush, optional -- but highly recommended.

mail problems

hey -- my mail problems haven't gone away -- it's taking up to 3 days for e-mail to arrive -- and sometimes it's taking up to a day for e-mail I sent to make it out. So if I'm slow to respond -- that may be why. If you need to get in touch with me right away -- try contacting me another way (if you don't know another way -- leave a note in this comment box).

It's probably going to be like this for the rest of the week -- we need a new piece of equipment and it hasn't arrived yet.

This Week at No Tell

Mark Yakich discovers that she was already married to someone else in order to get a green card this week at No Tell Motel.

My 2nd All Girl Affair

This all girl poetry is addictive!

www.mipoesias.com

Volume 20, Issue 2 Contributors:
DENISE DUHAMEL BIRDIE JAWORSKI LORNA DEE CERVANTES
MAXINE CHERNOFF SAWAKO NAKAYASU PRIS CAMPBELL
JENNY BOULLY AMY KING KARI EDWARDS LYN LIFSHIN
GRACE CAVALIERI LAUREL K. DODGE BECCA KLAVER
LAUREL SNYDER JILL CHAN BARBRA NIGHTINGALE
SHEILA MURPHY EILEEN TABIOS EVIE SHOCKLEY
HAYA POMRENZE APRIL LINDNER ADRIENNE SU
STEPHANIE WOOLLEY-LARREA JULIA COHEN
MICHELLE M. BUCHANAN REB LIVINGSTON
ANNMARIE ELDON AMY GERSTLER
RITA MARIA MARTINEZ

Photography © Birdy 2006. New York, NY.

Here is the podcast of the issue:
www.miporadio.com

Am I Cut Out For This?

Just finished the interview with the Irish radio station -- hmm, not sure if I was what they wanted. OK, I definitely wasn't what they wanted.

Ally: My friend's name is Mary -- what should one rhyme with that?

Me: Um, well maybe avoid rhyming her name all together?

Ally: Oh, come on.

Me: Um, "cherry?"

And then I read Karl Parker's "A Museum of Making Do" and Ally said she wasn't seduced one bit.

Ouch! That poem ripped off my clothes. Am I just easy?

Back to packing!

I'm Outta Here

Chris and I are headed to Tahoe for the weekend. The boy will be taking a solo vacation at Grandma's.

It'll be a laptop free trip -- so don't freak when your blog stats are cut in half. I won't be quitting my addiction, just temporarily replacing it with the screens of nickle slots. I'll be back in full clicking force on Monday.

In the meantime, my "Crucial Rooster" column will be up at The Happy Booker on Friday.

And some time soon, possibly while I'm away, a brief essay about my poet-crush on Amy Gerstler will appear at Beatrice.

Recently Received

Sex & Chocolate Edited by Lucinda Ebersole and Richard Peabody (Paycock Press)

Parallel Play by Stephen Burt (Graywolf Press)
Sugartown by David Rivard (Graywolf Press)

Eye Level by Jane Shore (Carnegie Mellon University Press)

Red Mountain Review (Volume 1 -- including the chapbook "Little Burning Edens" by Charles Jensen)

Ugh

I'm having mail server problems -- if you sent me a message in the last 12 hours and I haven't responded -- please be patient. I should receive it sometime later today.

Do I Need a More Official Sounding Title

like "sexy poem expert" or perhaps "banana hammock inspector"?

Yesterday I was interviewed by a reporter at Flash News, a subscription-based culture news wire. He stumbled across the book on Lulu and decided to do a story. Being the media-whore that I am, I was thrilled.

I was a little surprised by a few things, one, that even though he received a review copy, he didn't read (any of) it and was writing the brief article without it on hand. After I explained that it wasn't a collection of adultery poems, we got to business chatting -- which wasn't what I expected at all either. What he wanted to discuss was tips on writing seduction poems. I guess that is logical -- but for some reason I wasn't expecting that. The article came out today -- but since it's a subscription based service, I don't think I'm supposed to reprint here.

It's pretty much what I expected after the interview, brief and fun -- quick mention of the anthology and then offering "Another big mistake when writing seductive stanzas is focusing the poem on physical attributes, such as comparing the color of your lover's eyes to the sky" and one should avoid using "trite rhymes like "breast" and "chest" or "rock" and "cock."" (Forgive me, I was on the spot!)

I just got a call from a radio program in Dublin, Ireland (FM 108). On Thursday I'll be recording an interview with "Jack & Ally" sharing my "expert seduction poem techniques" for the listeners.

I plan to be more prepared this time around.

Um, anyone care to offer up some tips they don't mind me passing off as my own?

This Week at the No Tell

Cindy Arrieu-King feels pitiful and brutalized on the hotel rug this week at No Tell Motel.

Instant Replay

My New Favorite Poet

Lindsay Loudon!

I Already Brung It

Let's make this interesting.

Dear Other Rebecca,

In the spirit of "There Can Be Only One" I challenge you to the following wager:

If the Steelers win, you change your first name and begin publishing and blogging as "Lindsay Loudon."

If the Seahawks win, I'll change my first name and begin publishing and blogging as "Brittany Livingston."

What's the matter? Chicken(hawk)?

Reb(ecca)

Spent the Night

in the company of some people. It was fun, but there's no site stats or graphs to obsess over. No evidence I was there. Guess I'll have to replay the conversations over and over in my mind to get my fix.

Kaplan said No Tell Motel is the Bill Clinton of poetry and the more I think about it, the more I'm OK with that description.

p.s. Thanks to those who commented and e-mailed.

Point Taken

A warning that if one doesn't stuff it she'll be devoured may put some into silence out of fear of being the next pooh mustache victim, but it pisses me off. Don't fucking bully me.

If someone had the intent to truly hurt and devastate me, it could be done pretty easily. There's ample material on this blog and other places. I am under no illusion that I have any control to change that. Writing comments here and on other blogs and editing publications opens myself up to these kinds of things.

Being called out for having an Internet addiction does not hurt or devastate me -- but it's valid and true. I got up at 6:30 a.m. to feed Gideon and even though I only had a couple hours of sleep, here I am, blogging. And what's worse is I'm addressing something that at this point isn't particularly productive and I'm coming close to falling into the situation I've accused others of doing. Yes, I should be editing another fake anthology nobody wants to buy or doing 100 other things. This is seems like a good place to stop -- and blog about something else.

But not right now.

Good morning. I'm going back to bed.

How Else Can I Call Bullshit On Something If I Don't Know What's Being Said?

Ooooh, I'm busted.

I guess.

Everybody -- go check your stats -- with a domain like "rebaroni.com" -- I'm not too hard to miss. Seems rather "transparent" -- and that's awfully important these days -- isn't it?

Hi. I'm Reb Livingston. I spend an unhealthy amount of time on the Internet. I'm usually up until 3 a.m. One of the many places I check on an obsessive basis is Foetry. And probably your blog, if you have one. And Drudge. And Yahoo news. And the Washington Post. And the Pittsburgh Post Gazette.

I'm also a compulsive self-googler.

Not sure what this has to do with "Exposing the fraudulent "contests." Tracking the sycophants. Naming names." and how I'm being dishonest. Never said I didn't go there. Last year Alan said I was there "every fucking day" and I my reply was "not recently" and that was true at that time. I had a new baby and was obsessing about other things.

I am more than aware that Alan could easily check and "out" me. There were ways I could have got around him knowing I was visiting the site -- but this doesn't rank on my list of dirty little secrets I don't want anyone to know.

Here, I'll help Alan spread the word to the masses and make poetry safe for everyone. Maybe give Foetry a big usage jump. For a day.

And I'm sorry Alan if I didn't blush over your kind praise of the anthology. I didn't think I was being especially rude -- just wondering what your next step in cleaning up "Poetry" was going to be. You do have a next step, don't you? There is something more, right? I keep going back because I expect to see something more.

What is it that you're "exposing" again? Maybe you got a hot tip that Jorie Graham re-gifted something? I know, how tacky!

You know, one time, there was this guy, and he said he was gonna rock my world and then he didn't, in fact, it ranked up there with one of my most disappointing experiences and well, I guess I could have went after him and said "how dare you mislead me, you had to know that wouldn't rock a chipmunk's world, you had no right to make such a claim" but I didn't and I didn't accept his self-proclaimed authority and I didn't let it ruin me for all sex even though sex is something I care about and I let it pass and I didn't return his calls and when I was feeling especially mean, I'd get together with a girlfriend and we'd cruise up and down 5th Avenue mockingly yelling "Hung like a conquistador!" and "That's wonderfuck!" out the car window but after a while even that got boring.

Question

So I asked this question over at Seth's and didn't get an answer and I'm honestly curious so I put it out there for anyone who wants to answer it.

Which poetry editors with "influence" (sticky sticky word, I know -- could we not quibble over this term?) are doing a good job publishing and promoting poetry? Who deserves our respect and admiration? Who should we grow up to be like?

And of course, why?

Three Thoughts in One Day!

The fact that at one point studio executives deemed the untalented and unattractive Ben Affleck the #1 leading man did not ruin all cinema for me as a frequent moviegoer. Sure, it ruined a few movies. Sure, I thought he was unworthy. Academy Award? What the fuck ever. Did his friendship with Kevin Smith give him an "unfair" advantage when Miramax decided to go with "Goodwill Hunting?" In the end, does any of this matter?

I still go to the movies. I just avoid his. People do the same thing with books.

Two Thoughts In One Day

I chose to present the Bedside Guide as sexy and hot. If you read it and don't get a boner, do I owe you an explanation?

Thought

Maybe what we should have done -- instead of calling the anthology "The Bedside Guide to No Tell Motel" (a title that apparently makes no "authoritative claims" and therefore offends no one's precious sensibilities) -- was instead title it "The Most Fuckable Poems of 2005."

We'd have a higher Amazon ranking.

Hmm . . . maybe next year.

And also, we're going to include a key so it will be 100% transparent what Molly's and my relationships are with the contributors. It'll look something like this:

Symbol - Meaning

Winking Eye - Somebody Who's Published Our Poems
Dollar Sign - Somebody Who Paid Us To Publish His/Her Poem
Gun - Somebody Who's Blackmailing/Threatening Us
Cocktail Glass - Drinking Buddy
Mizpah Charm - Best Friend
House - Relative
Two Tongues Tied - Kissing Cousin
Hand Grabbing Ass - Somebody We Hope Will Bang Us Now That We've Published Him/Her
Hand Grabbing Breast - Former Teacher/Student
Two Bodies Humping - Current Teacher/Student
Clenched Fist - Recipient/Giver of Tug Job


Because that's what books are about.

My New Life Motto

Live, learn, try not to be too big of an asshole.

My First All Girl Affair

In the past, I have avoided publishing and aligning my work and myself with "woman" magazines and organizations. When I used to send work to contests (which I never do now), I skipped the woman-only ones. I've never joined Wom-po. There's a lot of complicated reasons for this. I'm not a big fan of poet "identity" used as a way to categorize and my own pre-conceived notions were/are discriminatory -- I hear "woman" and I think "not as good." I don't think I'm the only woman who has thought that way. Also, to be perfectly honest, I tend/tended to prefer the company of men. A lot of "woman talk" makes me incredibly uncomfortable.

My stance is softening and changing considerably over the the past couple of years and yes, pregnancy and motherhood has been a major factor. I didn't want it to be a factor. I've had more than one friend express disappointment when I told him/her I was pregnant because that meant I was going to change, I wasn't going to be fun, I was going to be a mommy and that's lame and what's even lamer is that on many levels I agreed with them. People also told me I wasn't going to write anymore because I would devote my every waking hour to being a mother. Other friends were supportive, but in ways that annoyed me. "Oh, I can't wait to see how your work is going to change once you become a mother!" It took all self-control not to tell these well-intentioned supporters not to go fuck themselves, I'm not writing a fucking sippy cup poem.

Nobody said anything about a sippy cup poem -- that was my own bigotry.

I didn't realize how much baggage I was carrying around until I had no choice but to confront my own views.

One, I'm still uncomfortable with a lot of "woman talk" -- not nearly as much as I was. And men, I still adore being around men, but I much more annoyed and less forgiving of insensitivity -- especially the insensitivity to my situation. This puts me at odds with some of my male friends because they don't understand why I'm suddenly freaking on their asses for what they consider harmless comments and actions. For instance, six days after I gave birth, in what I considered a bold attempt to get "back to work," a question I asked regarding a call for submissions made it onto one of the poet mailing lists I subscribe. A childless male (who I'm pretty sure was aware I just had a baby, at the very least, he knew I was about to have one) publicly chided my inquiry, telling me I needed to be more ambitious with my work and try something "new." You're damn right I freaked on his ass and then I went to bed for three hours in the middle of the day until Chris gently reminded me that I really had to get up and feed Gideon. It was at that moment I understood why women made up their own exclusive communities -- there's no way to avoid those who "don't get it" -- sure, you can always educate someone, but there's always someone else right around the corner with another asinine comment. Sometimes you need a break from it.

The obvious truth is having a child has dramatically changed my life. I'm by far more understanding of other's situations -- yet, I'm even pushier than before -- cause I'm the MOMMY and I make all the rules. It's cause I said so, got it? Now get in the fucking car.

It makes it more difficult to write -- it makes it more difficult to do anything, like showering, going to the grocery store, having a conversation on the telephone, writing a blog post. It's made me decide what's important and what isn't -- forced me to make choices. The easiest choice was to cut-out the 20 or so hours a week I spending designing jewelry. I loved doing it -- yet, the decision to stop was a complete no-brainer. It's not a priority. Other things I've given up -- the neatness of my house and sleep. Those were more difficult choices. I hate having people see the house in a sloppy state. It upsets me. Going from 8 hours of sleep to 4 or 5 hours means I'm often exhausted and lack energy. It clouds my judgement, makes me forget things (sometimes very important things) and sometimes I'm in a foul mood. When people ask me "how do I do it all" I want to shake them and yell "Can't you see I'm barely hanging on here!?!"

Things that I decided are too important to give up are writing, publishing and traveling. That doesn't mean all these things haven't been cut back and modified -- but these are important enough for me to make the effort to fit in around raising a child -- which I find immensely challenging and time consuming in itself.

I don't consider myself lame -- but yes, I now spend a good portion of my day asking "Did you poop?" in a high pitched cutesy voice.

Has it changed the way I write? I don't know. I'm intentionally unconscious of that.

And I have a strong desire to meet and get to know other poet-mothers, mainly those who are still producing work and creative projects. I want to learn from those who continue.

This is a lengthly way of saying, I have work in issue 3 of mem -- published by mother of two, Jill Stengel. mem is a quarterly magazine dedicated to writing by poets who are currently mothering young children, and page mothers--more established poets who are involved in their community in a way that helps less-established women writers get themselves more established. (teachers, publishers, editors, series coordinators, etc.)

Two years ago I wouldn't have bothered flipping through this publication -- but now I find it extremely vital and necessary.

I just got the issue today -- it's purple, my new favorite color (cause Gideon's birthstone is amethyst). It also has poems by Chris Murray, Hoa Nguyen, Danielle Pafunda, Laurel Snyder and Katherine Varnes -- all talented poets continuing with their work.

Let me be clear -- I'm encouraging you to to subscribe.