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poet husbandry

I’ve done my share. Coast to coast.

I’ve done my share of poet husbands, too.

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Paris in the rain

a woman’s life

is too tenuous



spider web

close call on I-75

in preterm labor

on the way to the

Paris airport

in the rain






for bad friends

bad family

bad coffee

bad shoes

bad mattresses

bad jobs

bad husbands

bad debt

and bad dick

learn this by 30 for maximum





of a dying planet

Americana art beauty behavior belief communication happiness human behavior Jazz journalism life literature love mindfulness muse museums poetry travel travel writing Uncategorized

The Secret of My Traveling Crystal Necklace

Back in 2012, when I had my first book release in Los Angeles, I had a crystal beaded necklace that pulled apart in my suitcase. It seemed wrong to rid myself of the estranged gems, and I harboured unlikely notions of restringing the beloved baubleĀ one day. As I was packing to leave, some of the beads accidentally rolled under my voluptuous bed in The Biltmore Hotel. I suspect they may still be there, as things seem not to change much there, except the sheets, and I liked the notion of leaving a part of myself behind in the City of Angels.

The beads remained in my suitcase as I drove and flew to poetry gigs all over the country for the next few years. In keeping with the precedent set in Los Angeles, I started purposefully dropping them in places I stayed. I would toss the pea-sized stones into locations they were unlikely to be found: down antique brassĀ filigree air vents in byzantine hotels, behind cabinetry permanently affixed, through imperfectly sawed holes cut for plumbing to climb and dive through plaster, beneath the loose floorboards of my friend’s apartment, into the chasms of airport elevator shafts. You get the idea.

There are pieces of my secret crystal beaded necklace hidden in Los Angeles, Santa Barbara, Redondo Beach, Berkeley, Venice Beach, San Francisco, Oakland, Salt Lake City, Chicago, Cleveland, New York City, Elyria, Canton, Nashville, Lexington, Dallas, Cincinnati, and even pitiful Little Rock, Arkansas, a place I didn’t care for at all. I consider them amulets to protect people and cities with whom I fell in love, and talismans to keep away those whom I didn’t. The faceted baubles keep me tethered, connected through minutiae, in the smallest of ways.

More beads remain in my suitcase to this day, an impossible amount hidden within the satin folds, certainly a greater number than my finite crystal necklace was ever originally composed of. It is as if the universe is telling me that I have more journeys to take, love to make, and fine people to meet. So, if you’re staying in a heat wilted hotel by the Pacific Ocean, enduring a vaulted matchbox overlooking the Hudson River, standing by a tuneless luggage carousel, or renting a beautiful two bedroom flat nestled near Lake Erie, and a magical crystal bead finds you, that’s just me…and I’ll be seeing you.


travel writing

driving from los angeles to berkeley for a poetry gig in a pickup truck

he made it clear

with his cowboy smile

it was

okay to be myself


sweet tea in an irish joint

patrick’s roadhouse

green t-rex mounted on the roof

why the hell not

santa monica

pacific coast highway

a bust of rimbaud staring

at our obscene amount of french fries

we found ourselves eating in miss havisham’s sitting room

surrounded by

bric-a-brac of the damned

laughing at local customs 

i decided

on my fifth trip to california

(terrestrial green valley

little indian girl that i am)

to give myself to the pacific ocean

for the first time


we stopped in santa barbara

i was only going to dip my toes in

kicking off my ballet flats

but i allowed the tide

to pull me out

again and again until i

fully clothed in blouse and skirt

walked into the sea waist high

edna pontellier awakening

with no desire to die

it was that moment

i felt pure bliss streaming

down in salt water tears

it was that moment 

i was most alive

photography travel

Lovely Cincinnati

poetry sociology travel

step right up

is a writer

without the capacity

for original thought

a writer at all

no tis

a coney island carnival barker

at best

selling second hand sideshows

tired hookers

and hoary oysters lacking pearls

screaming steam purled

from a concave chest


photography travel



food poetry religion Southern Living travel

devil an egg

my stomach growls

for Kentucky cookin’

church pot lucks of the past

made by old pin curled women

in floral dresses

no longer living

laid out

upon Christian hobbled tables

beneath a giant oak tree

no longer standing

baked beans

macaroni salad

fried chicken

pineapple upside down cake

deviled eggs

damned fine eatin’

and believe you me

no one

can devil an egg

like a Baptist

happiness literature love poetry relationship studies romance sex shooting stars travel


forever keep the one

who insists

on picking you up

from the airport

this is

the love

of your life


Obligatory airport selfie. Beast Crawl!