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workshop for poetry, university of Baltimore

couldn’t stop crying …which was okay. i’ve been off pills, now feelings are coming.

it was from lisa. she read from her two-line break poetry piece. when she was 13 she practiced standing, up straight, looking her mom, in the eye : “yeah mom, i am.” she loves women. someone left her in guadalajara. it made her want to think of anything else less tortorus, even her mom hating her. it felt like relief compared to losing someone she was mad crazy for.

there were christmas lights, red and green over the chalkboard and mine, next to the handles that stood up our diy books.

i thought i’d stop feeling like a flood. i was water on the table and my eyes were puffy.  then wallace got up and said he remembered this time last year. he wished more than anything to be writing, in a program. everything, he says, all the writing, all the journaling, the page looks, the picture on the front of this project, are for his son. he wants him to remember him like this.

 kendra’s gotten us to revise. i’ve gotten okay with talking about complicated things.

she’s makes me “feel” for a word that’s seven miles away. even though it’s a trek out there, i know i can reach it, and when i do it feels like “kapow” in my poem.

i look for quotes cause when i hear this one, i feel i should look for a one new, one i haven’t looked over a hundred times. but when i say this it outloud, it makes me, alive:

“america is my country, but paris is my home” -gertrude stein. florida may be my state, orlando my city; they’re where i was born. but i couldn’t think of anything that’s more-  this writing program is my home.”

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