...er, I've finally copyrighted this schtuff--albeit halfassedly, but still, um, don't bite. Yo.   
prosety.

Okay. So prosety has been getting some more traffic lately, and I'd like to 'splain just what it is.

I've written all my life, but for the longest had no term for what I did most often: a weird hybrid of prose and poetry, too stream-of-consciousness and laden with various lyrical devices to be legit prose, and too straightforward (usually) and earthbound (for lack of a better term) to be called poetry. So about two years ago I figured out prosety.

This isn't a blog. You can visit the overhaul for that--sometimes it has some decent writing. This site, though, is a way for me to hash out my own writing in a semi-public forum, in the effort to improve it and develop as a writer...poetess...whatever. I have no idea, honestly.

I thought about making it possible for visitors to comment on the various posts, as they can at the overhaul, but I'm a bit too fragile for that just yet, and I also don't want to find myself (much as I did when I had a radio show) worrying "Will they like it? Will this appeal to enough people?" so I figured I'll just operate in a vacuum for a while, and if you really hate it, well, that's an option. Or if you like it, that would be cool too.

One more thing: some of these are quotes that appeal to me at that particular moment, usually from songs or books. Those are always indicated by a reference to the author or songwriter. Anything with no notation is my own.

So. This is my tree falling in the forest.



Monday, March 24, 2003


my dearest friend--
we are bereft of
any pulling or tugging at the corners of language,
any way I could tie it up for you, kindly and reassuringly,
the way, the way the way I'd like to,
the way you deserve,
the way the way we go around,
strutting and fretting,
and so instead I send you every bargaining prayer I guiltily uttered,
every gusting wave of rage I've ever railed against heaven,
every upward thrust from the earth that stood me stronger under it all,
every maddened and raging moment,
I send you this and more,
a silent warm wind on your nighttime drive south,
ten million stars to guide you home.









Friday, March 07, 2003




clichès are clichès for a reason

darlin please don’t…
cry
the apple of my…
eye
everythings comin up roses, roses roses
In our grim cocoon
In our worn out
language















Monday, March 03, 2003

the kind of way you while away the hours the hours collapsing days,

i swear to god your rhythm is fucked up girl.