tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-102394622024-03-13T12:52:30.700-06:00UntitledAnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.comBlogger2523125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-72997983072712494582022-08-05T14:36:00.003-06:002022-08-05T18:12:13.100-06:00Sometimes in April, part 47For so many years, my siblings and I operated as though we were living under a favorable sign, or a protective veil. We really had never experienced anything truly traumatic.We had watched others and their families stumble through terrible life circumstances.I am sure we never failed to say, there but for the grace of God...maybe not truly understanding how close we were to the truth. AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-57883660241597328532022-06-15T19:46:00.030-06:002022-06-15T22:23:06.383-06:00what if?What if I told you that I only feel worthy if I can be of help to someone?What if nothing anyone could say could make it better?There are lots of details that I don't want to explain right now. Foul, I know. But there it is.But what if there was someone who you have always wanted to declare her love for you? And what if at this point, even if she did or could, it would not change how you feel AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-50209649581566360172022-03-18T09:49:00.002-06:002022-03-18T09:54:49.348-06:00HAPPY FRIDAY! Yesterday, a FB friend posted about this phone number: 707-998-8410.If you haven't called it, you should do it right now.It is an elementary school's take on surviving and thriving. It's called PepTOC, a pep talk hotline done by children who are surviving and thriving through all the madness. [You can donate to the effort here if you are inclined. They are crowdsourcing funds to keep AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-51483564866520008362022-03-01T15:35:00.006-07:002022-03-01T15:36:02.519-07:00Awesome start to Women's History MonthShoulda Been Jimi Savannah~Patricia Smith - 1955-My mother scraped the name Patricia Ann from the ruinsof her discarded Delta, thinking it would offer me shieldand shelter, that leering men would skulk away at the slapof it. Her hands on the hips of Alabama, she went for flatand functional, then siphoned each syllable of drama,repeatedly crushing it with her broad, practical tongueuntil it AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-70707745279403481102022-02-14T03:00:00.005-07:002022-02-14T03:00:00.220-07:00Happy Valentine's Day y'allIf I Should Come Upon Your House Lonely in the West Texas Desert~Natalie Diaz - 1978-I will swing my lasso of headlightsacross your front porch,let it drop like a rope of knotted lightat your feet.While I put the car in park,you will tie and tighten the loopof light around your waist —and I will be there with the other endwrapped three timesaround my hips horned with loneliness.Reel me in across AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-73075110502583092002021-11-01T03:00:00.015-06:002021-11-01T03:00:00.198-06:00Poetry Thursday, Native American Heritage Month Dear New Blood~Mark TurcotteYou don’t need me, I know, here onthis podium with my poem. Youhunched in the back of the room,tilted in your hard-earned reservationlean. You ho-hum your gaze out thewindow toward some other sky. Dear new blood, dear holy dear fullymixed up mixed down mixed in andout blood, go ahead and kick the shit,kiss the shit from my ears. I swear Iswear I’ll AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-24839592507145549352021-09-23T03:00:00.005-06:002021-09-23T03:00:00.211-06:00 Black ParadeDarrel Alejandro HolnesComing out isn’t the same as coming to Americaexcept for the welcome paradeput on by ghosts like your granduncle Roywho came to New York from Panamá in the 50sand was never heard of againand by the beautiful gays who died of AIDS in the 80swhose cases your mother studiedin nursing school. She sent you to the US to becomean “American” and you worryshe’ll AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-1371192987168809442021-07-04T14:01:00.008-06:002021-07-04T14:01:00.245-06:00 America is Loving Me to Death~Michael Kleber-Diggsacrostic golden shovelAmerica is loving me to death, loving me to death slowly, and IMainly try not to be disappeared here, knowing she won’t pledgeEven tolerance in return. Dear God, I can’t offer allegiance.Right now, 400 years ago, far into the future―it’s difficult toIgnore or forgive how despised I am and have been in theCenturies I’ve AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-62179230939843125552021-06-09T20:11:00.004-06:002021-06-09T20:45:15.434-06:00octopus or vampireDo you ever feel like someone is always asking you for something?You are standing in a room and octopus arms are coming at you from all sides?This is how I feel right now. EVERY DAY. Almost all day long.It is exhausting.My hard drive is full - I cannot contain any more useful or useless information. I am tapped. I don't have anything else to give.Yet, my parents want me to weigh in on every AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-91416760580397118032021-05-27T08:38:00.002-06:002021-05-27T08:38:00.341-06:00 Menace to~Taylor Johnsonafter June JordanNightly my enemies feast on my comradeslike maggots on money. Money being my enemyas plastic is my enemy. My enemy everywhereand in my home as wifi isa money for me to reach my comradesand kills my house plants. My enemyis distance growing dark, distance growingpolitely in my pocket as connection.I must become something my enemies can’t eat, don’t AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-9478371245859700142021-05-20T03:00:00.002-06:002021-05-20T03:00:00.325-06:00 Along the Border~Jasminne Mendez after Idra NoveyOn a dirt roadOn a drive to el campoYou found a bateyI cut the cane We sucked on a stalkYou gave me your arms I swam in the riverWe locked the door Then the lights went out And the AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-39078073848027807762021-05-09T03:00:00.009-06:002021-05-09T03:00:00.246-06:00Not Poetry Thursday, for Mother's Day My Nothings ~Ama CodjoeYou, who have bowed your head, shedanother season of antlers at my feet, for years you fall asleep to the lullabies of dolls,cotton-stuffed and frayed, ears damp with sleep and saliva, scalps knotted with yarn, milk-breath,and yawns. Birth is a torn ticket stub, a sugar cone wrapped in a paper sleeve, the blackestice. It has been called AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-7388519149019634642021-05-06T03:00:00.002-06:002021-05-06T03:00:00.251-06:00 Duplex: Black Mamas PrayingAntoinette Brim-BellBlack Mamas stay on their knees praying. Cursingthe lies folks tell ‘bout how the world don’t need you—“The world don’t need you” is a lie folks tell themselveswhen they step over blood gelled black and slick.Folks step over black blood gelled and slick to geton with things—don’t bring bones to the cemetery.Bones in the cemetery, hear the AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-28018759279205219752021-04-30T03:00:00.002-06:002021-04-30T03:00:00.264-06:00Poetry Month, Jenny Xie To Be a Good Buddhist Is Ensnarement ~Jenny XieThe Zen priest says I am everything I am not. In order to stop resisting, I must not attempt to stop resisting. I must believe there is no need to believe in thoughts. Oblivious to appetites that appear to be exits, and also entrances. What is there to hoard when the worldly realm has no permanent AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-16181648862403009392021-04-29T03:00:00.002-06:002021-04-29T03:00:00.257-06:00Poetry Month, Diannely Antigua Anniversary~Diannely AntiguaOutside, an abandoned mattress sags with rainand the driveway turns all sludge when I rememberI could’ve died eight years ago, in a bedsmaller than the one I share with a new loverwho just this morning found another grey hair in my afro,and before resettling the wiry curl with the others,kissed the freckle on my forehead.I admit, I don’t know a love that AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-40379354382881494572021-04-28T03:00:00.000-06:002021-04-28T03:00:00.253-06:00Poetry Month, Claire Meuschke zero in on~Claire MeuschkeI turn on a light in a room I pace away fromtake comfort behind neon signs nested in wiresan errant mirror propped against a commercial stripor cradled awkwardly in the elbows of a passerbymy legs become their legsmushrooms came before us needing no lightnow they clean up oil spills rebuild biomesripped green awnings of my youth have AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-38390886332529420862021-04-27T03:00:00.000-06:002021-04-27T03:00:00.255-06:00Poetry Month, Khaty Xiong The Seven Prisms of My Blood~Khaty Xiongafter Yvan GollIn the absent oils of your eyes two brown oresresting leisurely on the view of your children.You uncoil casually. My hand slippingto the west and what was felled fills meuntil I fall forward injuring your already dead arm.I am so sorry. Our wills in a twist. Electric.Some pulse between the gurney and the distant coffin.My camera shutterAnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-64646768709553755242021-04-26T03:00:00.003-06:002021-04-26T03:00:00.278-06:00Poetry Month, W. S. Merwin The Wings of Daylight ~W. S. MerwinBrightness appears showing us everythingit reveals the splendors it calls everythingbut shows it to each of us aloneand only once and only to look atnot to touch or hold in our shadowswhat we see is never what we touchwhat we take turns out to be something elsewhat we see that one time departs untouchedwhile other shadows gather around usthe world’s AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-65497684417781733682021-04-26T03:00:00.001-06:002021-04-26T03:00:00.278-06:00 from “Please Bury Me in This” ~Allison Benis WhiteNow my neighbor through the wall playing piano, I imagine, with her eyes closed. When she stops playing, she disappears. I am still waiting for the right words to explain myself to you. When there was nothing left to smoke, I drew on my lips with a pen &AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-55960370781413927822021-04-25T03:00:00.002-06:002021-04-25T03:00:00.296-06:00Poetry Month, Vanessa Angelica Villarreal (it might be a repeat) Corpse Flower ~Vanessa Angélica VillarrealYesterday, the final petal curled its soft lure into bone. The flowerhead shed clean, I gathered up your spine and built you on a dark day. You are still missing some parts. Each morning, I curl red psalms into the shells in your chest. I have buried each slow light: cardinal’s yolk, live AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-79672360234241012722021-04-24T03:00:00.004-06:002021-04-24T03:00:00.248-06:00Poetry Month, Aldo Amparan Aubade at the City of Change~Aldo AmparánIn this cityeach door I crossin search of your roomgrows darkerthan the sky, this silverdome of morning spreadacross the urban smog.Country dark washes the citylight off the outskirts& beyondwhere you sleep in hiding,where your facewrapped in gauzeshines like sequinin the lingering moon-drizzle.I reach for youat the corners of the clubs,inside AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-61993714507812473762021-04-23T03:00:00.000-06:002021-04-23T03:00:00.278-06:00Poetry Month! Tanaya Winder Becoming a Ghost~Tanaya WinderAsk me about the timemy brother ran towards the sunarms outstretched. His shadow chased himfrom corner store to churchwhere he offered himself in pieces.Ask me about the timemy brother disappeared. At 16,tossed his heartstrings over telephone wire,dangling for all the rez dogs to feed on.Bit by bit. The world took chunks ofmy brother’s flesh.Ask me about the AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-86414710593296690082021-04-22T03:00:00.007-06:002021-04-22T03:00:00.456-06:00Poetry Month, Ada Limon: she must be reading my mind Give Me This~Ada LimónI thought it was the neighbor’s cat backto clean the clock of the fledgling robins lowin their nest stuck in the dense hedge by the housebut what came was much stranger, a liquiditymoving all muscle and bristle. A groundhogslippery and waddle thieving my tomatoes stillgreen in the morning’s shade. I watched hermunch and stand on her haunches taking suchpleasure in the AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-24891260427316565692021-04-21T03:00:00.004-06:002021-04-21T03:00:00.260-06:00Poetry Month, Jesus Castillo Untitled ~Jesús Castillo Dear Empire, I am confused each time I wake inside you. You invent addictions. Are you a high-end graveyard or a child? &AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10239462.post-46638089131861539112021-04-20T03:00:00.005-06:002021-04-20T03:00:00.271-06:00Poetry Month, Lynn Melnick When Bad Things Happen to Good People ~Lynn MelnickYou can only hear you look like a hooker so many timesbefore you become one. Spandex was really big the year I stopped believing.I babysat for the rabbi’s son, Isaac. There was luxe carpet in every room of the condo. Isaac liked Legosand we made a pasture and a patriarch and lots of wives. In his car in his garage the AnnaChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04948021508116102345noreply@blogger.com0