Archive for December, 2008|Monthly archive page


This is a collage of things that I’ve devoted nearly ALL of my free time to learning:


(I love owls, and that one in particular. My first vector image. He’s presh.)

I’m surrounded by intelligent people for most of my day, which always drives me to learn more. The two people I work directly with each day, KerriStarr and El Mol, are two of the bunch that drive me (which all started out with M.O.L. Junior years ago). A very special thanks to Cabeeb for a huge jump start on CSS, and for being my blog tech support after hours of failing to find the answer myself.

Yep. For a week and a half, I’ve been learning CSS. No Comment. I’ve also learned how to create vector images with a few tips from a very kind friend, incredible blogger and husband of a roller derby hottie, Kyle Steed .

Not that you all (or anybody) actually need daily updates on the progress of my new blog, nor do most people care all that much. I, on the other hand, do care, and this is my blog. I’ll be excited to announce when my blog is ready, so that I can decide whether or not the 5 site hits on Google Analytics, or the 4 on WordPress Stats is correct. Either way, I won’t forget any of you on my blog roll.

(**image is just a few snippets of my new blog in his/her naked state at the moment, with a lot of filler.  So if you don’t see the beginning of your name on the tiny sliver of the blog roll up there, don’t feel left out. Not that anyone one…)


a sunday show.

no you cannot see my fingers
they’re far too honest for my means
the cold unpretty that lingers
will start bleeding out of their seams

metaphors and synonyms
pull them through the pattern
pen and pen and pen again
patterns patterns patterns

mystery (does not mean depth),
a failed connect in perception
funny how i scribble this mess?
craving connection connection connection.

bellies full of words
they come to dinner as poetry
the regurgitated dessert, absurd
arranged to say a “woe is me”

join me in my cheaply lit show
o the things i make you drink
all dolled up with a quirky bow
im painted up in fake and pink.

you should really see my fingers
they’re pretty, though they’re borrowed
yes you should really see my fingers
but not until  tomorrow

Not the Moon

different than the moon
which over the past three nights
has stalled in constant swoon
stubborn in her plight.

inconsistent and expected
are your faces or lack thereof
persistent and dejected
for the empties i dare love.

hanging from my lashes
you pull into tired purple
and gather with my ashes
under my eyes in darkened circles.

I Love My Job

Thought I’d offer something pretty on me oogly ole blog.


Pictured: Kerri Starr , Manes , myself

Photo Courtesy of Matt Brown .

Update: TheCoolSide2.0 is making progress. I picked a theme, and now I’m just going to rework it for 3 years.

I hope to have it up in a week or so. I’ll provide a link, don’t panic.

I’ve Always Hated My Blog, Sorry WordPress.

The day is near when I’ll be able to visit my own blog outside of admin without gutting my eye sockets with a dull wooden spoon. TheCoolSide2.0 is not yet ready but is in progress. It’s a birth of sorts for me as I begin to learn all things web with the help of Caleb. For now, I’ll just include little nuggets of my writings.


my mornings were mirrorless when i had them,
and my boots never left my feet.

black nail polish
acrylic paintings
coffee shop tshirts
on my bed sheet.

miniature bottles of saki
sleeping all the wrong hours
my first pumpkin beer and the cold
warned off two in three showers.

road tripped to fayetteville
and stayed in a sideways frat.
the roads were nearly vertical
we blamed our sideways nights on that.

in the cleavage between the states
reno’s retarded cousin kept a moon.
i called him crying from the parking garage
half breathless
my lips curled into prunes.

the learning that happened that winter
i numbed with invented days
the few i didn’t sleep through
i detached in invented ways.

i’d rather go hungry
while tasting all the wrong food

than lack the craving, and be the


call it my winter as a broken hearted fool,
but not the meal in which i was lonely.
recent scribble.

The skin on my knees took form to the strip of carpet under my closet doors. A girl at school had shapely legs since 6th grade and when she wasn’t filling out her perfect jeans, she framed her perfectly smooth walkers with hemmed denim that never fell past her legal fingertips.
the knees that now supported the yet to blossom frame i claimed, had also followed suit with the rest of my body and remained that of a little girl.
the bottom of a large green plastic container originally meant for sewing supplies was, and still is, a haven for my personal keepsakes.
there was less than a dropper’s full left, and the as the golden wet disappeared along the bottom of the glass container it looked much like when saline solution runs into your bottom lid from the crier of your eye and spreads perfectly across the rim.
I limited my sniffing. Mainly out of fear that each of my breaths served to deplete this life source of mine. Songs “get stuck” in our heads play from the tune of our tongue, and visual repeats of the imagination recount scenes from past. I always believed that a  smell, however,  can only haunt when it is physically detectable. Haunt me it does.
From yards and yards away, a woman stands among other people and says, “I wore it yesterday, but today is just deodorant.” But I can pull that scent from anywhere, as long as it’s there. And there it was, the remnants in the bottom of the bottle she gave me when she said, “I got a brand new bottle for my birthday. This one can be yours.”
At 12, the smell of my mother intoxicated me. I experienced the her scent probably 9 times per year, and four of them were spent kneeling in my Texas closet searching for a breath of her Kansas being.
At 23, the smell still intoxicates me. A haunting on my nose that I rarely encounter but never easily escape. It was this year’s Thanksgiving I hugged my grandmother in her first moment of joy since the eve before the last day of giving thanks.
my face reached her neck as we hugged in the most natural of ways, not partnering our embrace with calm and polite manners. It was this year’s Thanksgiving that I smelled my mother and can nearly smell her now. Grandma didn’t dress up for Thanksgiving. Nor did she wear perfume.