"The Only people for me are mad ones."
-Jack Kerouac


I like people who
as best they can
have chosen sanity
after considering the alternatives.

If anyone is living with a chronic illness, specifically autoimmune disorders or any physical illness where you deal with chronic pain, I want to interview you for a poetry project.

If you’re interested, send me an ask with your email, name, and a few details about your condition.

For women, then, poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence. It forms the quality of the light within which we predicate our hopes and dreams toward survival and change, first made into language, then into idea, then into more tangible action. Poetry is the way we help give names to the nameless so it can be thought. THe farthest horizons of our hopes and fears are cobbled by our poems, carved from the rock experiences of our daily lives.

As they become known to and accepted by us, our feelings and the honest exploration of them become sanctuaries and spawning grounds for the most radical and daring of ideas. They become a safe-house for that difference so necessary to change and the conceptualization of any meaningful action. Right now, I could name at least ten ideas I would have found intolerable or incomprehensible and frightening, except as they came after dreams and poems. This is not idle fantasy, but a disciplined attention to the true meaning of “it feels right to me.”