you are (here)

It is pronounced: map. One syllable with proper push of “pppp” at the end. 

Or atlas, if you’re lucky to have a gathering of many.

They can be found in glove compartments in automobiles and in backpacks, folded neatly like an intricate fan of coordinates.

Lately, it can also be found with a mouthpiece, titled GPS. A rotation of satellites orbiting in the sky– when positioned correctly– can let you know whether you need to make a left or right or….

RECALCULATING….

On a road trip many years ago, in a subaru hatchback with enough room in the back for a foam mattress, there was no voice letting us know how to get to where we needed to go. We dug out a rand mcnally and leafed through pages that could have been called art. When we got lost, we stopped somewhere and asked for directions. Conversed with locals and breathed in the air of new (to us) land.

Then, we weren’t reliant on fancy phones guiding our every move.

Then, there was no contraption plugged into car to dictate our route.

Then, adventures felt more FREE form.

We have forgotten how to get lost. We dig out our lovers from left or right pocket, swipe in several directions to get us where we need to go.

We don’t wander as much.

Some don’t wander at all.

I am detached from a GPS. I carry around tiny pieces of paper with tiny shards of ink curled in, with my directions, that I carefully looked up. But if I get lost, I ask those around me who are attached. Or…I allow myself to wander until I really need to be where I need to be.

You are ****here******.

But maybe you can get there a little slower. Leave earlier next time and give yourself extra room for wandering. Slice in a little escapade into your day.

You may be surprised by your ability to go a few more minutes, even hours without the help of your palm pilot.

Today: A performance of music and poetry

Come to the Parkside Lounge today located at 317 E. Houston in NYC from 4-6 pm for some poetic experiments and an OPEN MIC!

I will be performing with my trusted sidekick, Pancetta Bruscetta III, ukelele.

Support this excellent weekly open mic put on by NYC press, great weather for MEDIA!
21 and over. 
2 drink minimum (they do have coffee and sodas)
$2 suggested donation 
Hosted by Thomas Fucaloro  

Features:
Aimee Herman 
John Paul Davis 
Todd Anderson

Spotlight feature: Elizabeth Rosner  

from The Tattooed Poets Project

I am proud to have my skin featured on The Tattooed Poets Project, which features flesh speaking out various poetics and prophecies.

This reads “when silence creates pattern/remove the middle/and engrave/the opposite.”

When asked to clarify these words, I explained:

“Out of the nine tattoos on my body, this is the only one whose words are mine. It comes from a poem in my second book of poetry, meant to wake up feeling (great weather for MEDIA).

I’ve had many people see this and ask what it means. I never grow tired of the question, because I find my answer always changes. For the most part it means to carve out the quiet in silence, which tends to become a pattern in existence. Wanting to speak OUT our silence(s) until the fear stops us. So, this is a reminder to untwist the repetition of silence and by engraving the opposite, one is encouraged to speak out and up.

I do this everyday with my poetry. I speak out of silence and away from its cage(s). I like this inked reminder on my body because I’ve existed inside so many variations of myself that felt haunted by silence. Fear of being shamed. Fear of breathing life into my scars. But this tattoo empowers me. It reminds me why I write.”

“the book is a literal body” –joy harjo

Inside this body, I have two. No, three. I’m still counting.

Inside this body, I have alphabetized two hundred and fourteen (plus or minus) bodies, birthed out of books out of words multiplying into more words, crafting enough bones to hold me up for days at a time.

Inside this body, I speech about pronouns and water. I remove every vein from beneath skin to sew into a tightrope for others to reach me.

Inside this body, splinters from the trees I’ve made love to. I’ve got shagbark and shellbark pulling at my shape with stretched branches.

Inside this body, a dialogue with freedom.

Inside this body, screams to wake the dead.

Inside this body, several long stories and a personal essay with fifteen pages of footnotes.

Inside this body, a love triangle featuring poetry, prose and musical notes.

Inside this body, an understanding of light fixtures and renewal.

Inside this body, a literal interpretation of every crack I’ve jumped over or squashed. Here, is where I focus my map. The map of behind me and what is yet to be trekked.

 

 

TODAY: a celebration of a new book by my dad.

Many years ago, while I was still living in Boulder, CO, I was published in an erotica anthology. I came back east to visit and made my way to Connecticut to see my dad. We were both very excited of my publication and even though the content was a bit racy, my dad and I headed to the nearby Barnes & Noble, so he could buy a copy.

Yes, I went with my dad to buy a book of erotica.

I have a fond memory of heading to the “Romance” section, where it was housed and eagerly finding it in its alphabetical place. If my memory is correct, we took photos. My dad holding erotica book, then I.

He has supported me through all my rejection letters and the unexpected acceptances. He has come to my readings and performances, even the ones which had content most fathers would find uncomfortable. He always called himself, a fan.

Now, I get to be his fan, as I help him celebrate his new book, “The Jefferson Files.” Tonight, at 61 Local in Brooklyn, NY at 61 Bergen Street. 7pm.

Being a writer has freed me from so much. I revel in watching his freedom let loose on the page as well.

in search of a superhero on the 4 train

dear black boy on green line, manhattan bound from the bronx,

I can still hear the music of your voice in my ears, but what to call a melody of screams. I have housed that fear, but never in that pitch and never out loud.

I did nothing.

I gave you my eyes, hoping they would stop your father, the long monster. I called him this, monster, because he is one.

I did nothing.

You dropped every spoonful of salt from your body through your eyes, begging to stand. You just wanted to stand. Why can’t I stand, you screamed. But the monster wouldn’t let you. Your father. I did nothing.

He called you son, while hitting your head as you screamed: “You said you were going to punch me in my neck.” I did nothing.

He said, “You are the reason everyone is staring.” And you continued to drop cups full of salt from your body as we all lifted our feet not to get wet from the drown of your fear. Your father, the monster, said he was going to punch one of us and called it your fault.

I/we did nothing.

I waited. I waited for someone else to do something because how long can one watch someone else’s trauma without reacting. Without doing something. We were all just bystanders waiting for another to step up.

I/we did nothing.

I kept waiting for someone to strap on a cape and save the day. I wanted to strap on a cape and save the day.

But I did nothing.

*

I think back to Kitty Genovese, a Queens woman who was stabbed to death just outside her home in 1964. Her neighbors watched during this attack. They watched the person leave, then come back and rape her. They watched and they did nothing.

*

Who or what are we waiting for?

When I finally got to Brooklyn, I walked off the train, headed above ground and cried. I cried for the boy and I cried for his cries. On that 4 train at 6pm, everyone on that train let him down. His calls for help were ignored.

I immediately reached out to my friend–a poet and teacher and the one who holds me accountable every single day for the tasks I hope to get through each day. I told him of this event. My hands shook and chest echoed.

I did nothing, I told him.

What can be learned from silence? At some point it must be cut into and turned up.

 

“When silence creates pattern remove the middle and engrave the opposite.”

 

I’ve been carving up all the silences in me since I was a kid. Trying to tell on the fright inside me. Speaking up is a way of moving through.

dear black boy on green line, manhattan bound from the bronx,

I want you to know that there are many monsters out there and some even reside in our homes. But there are also superheroes, humans who smile without a need for anything back. Humans who do not punch or abuse with words. Humans who heal.

a delicious read

(based on a true story)
Woman of twenty-something reads
paper menu on 4 train as though
it is a novel: page-turner with
characterized ingredients 
she--
chooses her adventure of
heartburn.

 

only ten words left

As per an experiment given to my students: If you had only 10 words left 
to speak (regardless of their relationship to each other) what would 
they be? The words inside the words can be spoken too.
linoleum
mailbox
innards
coffee
poem
handsome
disembody
queer
resplendent
quiet

***
dent box in 
hand

i embody
i queer

dent of
some innards
 
quiet queer 
of i

hand poem
of fee

a resplendent
quiet

of 
linoleum