Space Stuff–poem draft

Count the cloud fall of skies in peach cobbler erupt. Star stuff and space dust sink me to sleep: the slow soak, tender skinned give in of fog to the dawning horizon. All that water shaking dizzy in the nitrogen heavy molecule of sky. I swim big displacement, leaving plenty of leg room as I swan dive into isolation. but I am thick with muscle. I, magic lipped, steady bend away from lament, I lap up the steady celestial spill. My lips burn up with holes, burn up with the collection of constellations of tooth flesh imprint. Cherry gummed with moon chalk teeth, I sing the vacuum of dead space: my silence gorgeous.


revisions to be included in manuscript–new working title:  Moon Tides Sing Violet Petals Worth of Ghost Waves.


Hot Messes

Usually, I’m a poet. Every now and then, I write essays and creative non-fiction. It’s a genre I love and plan to explore more. This Wednesday, I had an essay (“Hot Mess“) that I wrote for my fall Seminar in Literature published in Baltimore Fishbowl, a fantastic online magazine. You should check it out: the essay and the website. It’s about being messy and how that can be both debilitating and comforting. It’s a psychological thriller, packed with visceral details about my filth.

Thesis officially starts in five days. I’m up to 32 poems currently. but, After meeting with my writing group (The Healthies), I’m working on a significant rewrite of one of them. In fact, it’s “Moon Slip,” which is posted down below. I like a lot of the imagery, language, word combinations … but it’s just … a little too incomprehensible/ abstract and I need to narrow what is actually happening in there, the sentiment at the heart of it. We’ll see.

In news of other hot messes, it’s going to snow between 20-30″ of snow from now until tomorrow. It’s cold outside. I have turkey chili (+turkey bacon) simmering in the crock pot, a lot of alcohol (beer, whiskey, two types of champagne), a box of lemon ginger tea, and I just started watching Mad Men. My three cats and I–a solid nuclear family–are in for a fabulous weekend. We’re going to simmer together in my mess.

Stay warm!

Allow me to reintroduce myself:

I’m Mandy. I’m two weeks away from my last semester in my MFA program for Creative Writing and Publishing Arts. Right now, I’m prepping my manuscript for said last semester. In the next three months, I’m going to finalize that manuscript, design a book from cover to cover, publish it, and promote it ……. Geez.

so I’m going to try to chronicle this last semester here. Already on here are a lot of old drafts of poems. Some of them might even be in my book!

In two weeks, I’ll be working three jobs and starting Thesis, so I’ve been working hard at revising and writing and designing while I still have room to breathe. Thus far, I have 32 poems that I have tentatively separated into three sections and ordered. This might end up being fruitless work, but it kept me amused during two days of 15 degree weather spent without leaving the warmth of apartment or changing out of pajama pants.

Pants are overrated.

so, Look forward to updates on my manuscript, possible designs, handmade elements, and how much I love my fellow poets that I have the pleasure of being in workshop with! I can’t wait to gush.

moon slip–poem

how silly my moon slip
into down     my lips
pocus wrap in yours
and I’m sorry about
celestial ache and howl
and how are you
getting down from here?
will you climb cloud
humid spilling? crawl?
beg the ailing air
to backbend into ladder
place your foot in the
spinal gnocchi rung
stumble out of this skin


life is crazy. my apologies for the sabbatical. 


I am warm with peach dinge sky
always spotted with light slice boxes
and cement understands my grey
echoes the hollow of my breast

dream (poem)

all liquored up in bed and I am threaded into skin
and my sour sweat is sweet on chapped lips

and I dream in infants, their soft skin and endless chub
dangling limbs and gaping mouths

my mouth agape alone in a bed filled with body
filled with body and my skin dews as afternoon

rises, noon rises before ready and I am liquored
threaded in sour sweat

dreaming in infant skin and dangling limbs
and I can’t wipe the sweat from my skin

can’t wipe the skin from my skin
and it’s too hot here, too humid

and I dream in infants
but I don’t dream.

to wait (poem)

how silly of me to read your skin
pressing, your pressing as subcutaneous.

deep is relative. i know. and my reason
dizzies drunk on nonsense

on fancy on romance. on nonsense.
&i knew better than my excited

utterance, braided in borrowed sheets
in childhood bedrooms and now

i wait. like spoiling food, waiting
for teeth to sink and my nectar

to spill over lips, to be lapped up
to be savored, to be loved.