...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.



Tuesday, December 16, 2003



two poems...

...each written a few weeks ago.


4:23 a.m., hollywood and nichols canyon

At some point late nite we broke the table in two, the weight of it
and the lines cut deep to something,
a sort of bone-dry breathlessness I’d never been before
I tell you
The raging love of life won't get me on my feet this time
I sit here good and I ain’t moving
You’re so bloody full of lies I can smell it
but I don't care, oh well, whatever--
I'll buy it all.
And if we run and run in circles, well,
I ain’t never tried it, so let me run deeper in this track...


--- --- ---


for cheney

Baby, you’re a hothouse flower,
Raging, tigerclaws and filthy grinning eyes,
a spoiled and growling kind of clawing at the space between our feet--
interstellar and vast, it is and
the poetry of your crumpled and sliding speech patterns mystifies me,
are you some sorta code
you simple little conundrum puppydogeyed sinister and darlin,
I don't trust you any farther than I can throw you, no
I dunno what to make of you but
a painting dripped and violently splattered, running
down my wrists to congeal at my toes, lovely and sublime
musical almost,--
you’ve got the
weirdest ways of saying things--
so lovely
your pretty wicked face,
and me
I'm a sucker