On Mother's Day, I left the house to go write for a few hours and when I came home, Clara and Daddy were deep in the Playdoh. My favorite object d'art of theirs is below. According to David, Clara asked him to make "mommy's car and put Clara, Diego and Daddy in it. Then let's go to the Apple store and fix your computer." Clara has been with Daddy to the Apple store more times than I can count these days, because Daddy's Powerbook has been broke broke broke. None of the geniuses seem able to fix it for good.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Sunday, April 13, 2008
I miss Thursday due to granite growing
from my right rib, cragged and grey the way
some rocks are, sharp and bearded, tres
Godly -- like I used to think God rolled.
Boulders crush my dreams consistently:
Rock v. Mouse since 1993.
Wasps and butterflies, my audience,
Float and sting and make me question Chance.
And overall it's difficult, agreed?
Strangled into life repeatedly,
Some of us grow stronger, some retract.
Baby hearts in NICU flash erractic
Measures on the monitors. Nurses
gather close and pray to end this curse.
Posted by Christa M. Forster at 4:52 AM No comments:
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
On Sunday, we drove to Egypt,
ate watermelon, fought sleep.
On Monday, we drug the cat out,
sat our asses on grey heaps.
On Tuesday, a headache drove home
water lilies rooting deep
through waters of my unconscious,
strategizing beyond keep.
Posted by Christa M. Forster at 5:20 AM 1 comment:
Saturday, April 05, 2008
Olives, Cash Flow Projections and Me
coffee cup sidled newly by, orange pen
the pharmalady gave me when I went
in for Nystatin for my son who is scratchin
like his life maybe depended on it.
I put my arms around him and tell the itch
you can go now, he won't worry anymore,
be gone itch. But itchin just be itchin
for a while longer, until we file our gander
under the goosedown, until we flower
under the bride grown, until we hunger
beneath that black doom. Bridegroom.
Posted by Christa M. Forster at 11:24 AM 1 comment:
Friday, April 04, 2008
You motherfuckers, you
You give me back my caps.
You motherfuckers, you
You Give Me Back My Caps.
Posted by Christa M. Forster at 2:57 PM 1 comment:
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Write fast. Don't think. Get it out before it shrinks
under the gun that shatters the windows, under
the oven that delivers the buns, clad in diapers,
shitting milk duds, pharmaceuticals, ancestral traces,
elemental retards choking the very heir they breathe
through. Me, too. Me, too. Me, too.
Posted by Christa M. Forster at 11:29 AM No comments:
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
the day my father died.
It's been 9 months now,
twitch, twitch, twitch, twitch,
twitch, twitch, twitch, twitch, twitch.
To whom -- to which -- shall I apply
my eye? Now that he's gone
down deep inside?
To whom? What? Who? Where?
There, just there, deeper,
Posted by Christa M. Forster at 2:03 PM No comments:
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
I Is Fine, 2
I don't even understand what I'm thinking anymore. Everything is strange.
Posted by Christa M. Forster at 5:56 PM 4 comments:
I Is Fine
My eye! No nefarious activity behind these lids. Thank god.
Here is my list for the day as written in pencil in my notebook:
Cancel Hollywood Video Value Pass
IAG Required Materials
Contact Writers for Artist Saloon
Call Zach Scott Theater is Austin
Do you keep daily lists? What's yours?
Posted by Christa M. Forster at 6:10 AM 7 comments:
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Life is Heaven, Too
I am misanthropic again, this time seasoned to taste with anxiety bordering on panic and depression. LOVELY.
Yesterday, I had a needle stuck into my eye.
My eyelid; nevertheless it's still the eye.
I had a "growth" on my left eyelid, which I found on Christmas Eve while putting makeup on using my mother's magnifying make-up mirror. I thought the bump might be an allergic reaction to the seven year old MAC eyeshadow I'd been using, and using a lot of. I now go nearly goth when going to a party. Why not? Life is hell. Anyway the growth was removed yesterday with a pair of scissors and now I have this small red dot that David says looks like a popped pimple. The growth is at pathology.
I am working on my anger issues.
Ceremony fills the void.
Speaking of ceremony, a lot of my old colleagues will be standing on it in NYC this coming week at AWP, the Writer's Conference of America. Some of them will be reading and presenting their work. I wish them well. I hope they all break legs.
Posted by Christa M. Forster at 4:58 PM 3 comments:
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)