Sarah Palin Addendum

So someone left a comment disagreeing with my post and telling me that I don't know what I'm talking about and how MLK Jr. is weeping. I deleted it because it was posted by ANONYMOUS. This is my blog. My photos. My information. If you don't have the guts to sign your name, I won't publish your comment.

This is my little sitting room area. I hang out here with my friends. Surely you came to the wrong party (pun intended).

Sarah Palin Reminds Me Of...

The woman who talks on her cell phone while ordering food. If the cashier asks her a question, she looks annoyed. If the cashier refuses to ring her up until she finishes the call, then the manager is called.

The woman who steals your parking space and pretends not to hear you when you call her a bitch.

"Sometimes I doubt your commitment to Sparkle Motion."

The woman who stares at my tattoos, wrinkles her nose, rolls her eyes.

The woman who won't give up her seat on the airplane so that a couple can sit together.

The woman who, when she is called into school because her child has bullied another child, insists that her child is an angel.

The woman who sends back her food at the restaurant.

The woman who thinks all women must have children in order to be complete.

The woman who buys LEGGS pantyhose.

The woman who would never consider a vacation to anywhere in the entire continent of Asia or anywhere in the entire continent of Africa.

The woman who insists the maid at the Ramada has stolen her jewelry.

The woman who insists that she is not racially prejudiced but has never had anyone not white over to dinner.

The woman who tells her children not to drink from water fountains.

The woman who thinks gays deserve AIDS.

I don't know you Sarah Palin, but I've seen your type. Please go away.

8 Great Poets

Jill Alexander Essbaum and Louisa Spaventa

Lately people have been asking me for recommendations. Who should I read? they say. Well, as with anything, an answer is not simple. Here are some of my favoritest poets and poems. There are certainly more, and I will be posting more of my hits list in the future.

Elizabeth Bishop
One Art

Sylvia Plath
The Zoo-Keeper’s Wife


Emily Dickinson
Wild Nights! Wild Nights!
Split the lark and you’ll find the music
If I shouldn’t be alive

Margaret Atwood
Pig Song

ee cummings
"'kitty'. sixteen,5'1",white,prostitute"

Jill Alexander Essbaum
Harlot

I'm including the full text of these poems because I could not find good links that didn't call in pop-up windows.

Federico Garcia Lorca

Landscape of a Vomiting Multitude

The fat lady came out first,
tearing out roots and moistening drumskins.
The fat lady
who turns dying octopuses inside out.
The fat lady, the moon's antagonist,
was running through the streets and deserted buildings
and leaving tiny skulls of pigeons in the corners
and stirring up the furies of the last centuries' feasts
and summoning the demon of bread through the sky's clean-swept hills
and filtering a longing for light into subterranean tunnels.
The graveyards, yes the graveyards
and the sorrow of the kitchens buried in sand,
the dead, pheasants and apples of another era,
pushing it into our throat.

There were murmuring from the jungle of vomit
with the empty women, with hot wax children,
with fermented trees and tireless waiters
who serve platters of salt beneath harps of saliva.
There's no other way, my son, vomit! There's no other way.
It's not the vomit of hussars on the breasts of their whores,
nor the vomit of cats that inadvertently swallowed frogs,
but the dead who scratch with clay hands
on flint gates where clouds and desserts decay.

The fat lady came first
with the crowds from the ships, taverns, and parks.
Vomit was delicately shaking its drums
among a few little girls of blood
who were begging the moon for protection.
Who could imagine my sadness?
The look on my face was mine, but now isn't me,
the naked look on my face, trembling for alcohol
and launching incredible ships
through the anemones of the piers.
I protect myself with this look
that flows from waves where no dawn would go,
I, poet without arms, lost
in the vomiting multitude,
with no effusive horse to shear
the thick moss from my temples.

The fat lady went first
and the crowds kept looking for pharmacies
where the bitter tropics could be found.
Only when a flag went up and the first dogs arrived
did the entire city rush to the railings of the boardwalk.


Denise Levertov

The Well

At sixteen I believed the moonlight
could change me if it would.
I moved my head
on the pillow, even moved my bed
as the moon slowly
crossed the open lattice.

I wanted beauty, a dangerous
gleam of steel, my body thinner,
my pale face paler.
I moonbathed
diligently, as others sunbathe.
But the moon's unsmiling stare
kept me awake. Mornings,
I was flushed and cross.

It was on dark nights of deep sleep
that I dreamed the most, sunk in the well,
and woke rested, and if not beautiful,
filled with some other power.