My absence, explained.

Hello,

I'm aware that it's been over a year since my last post and I'm going to change that.
I do want to let you know about the projects I'm currently working on:
1. Raising a wonderful son, Jackson.
2. Keeping my house clean.
3. Keeping myself clean.
      
         all jokes aside

4. A series of type writer poetry.
5. Still hoping to edit my hybrid novel.
6. Teaching a prose poetry course at the local community school.
7. Helping a young man get his GED and improve his writing.
8. Finding a part time job to fit my life as a S.A.H.M and a creative individual (who also wouldn't mind extra cash).
9. Getting enough sleep.
10. Having a great relationship with my fiance.

City Windows

I look into and up and out millions of windows

in Brooklyn. I imagine the myriad of stories that fill

the space between front and back doors.

Lights--through the well to do

Carroll Gardens’ bay windows

and the section-8 bars in Bed-Stuy--

seep into the world the same way,

if there are cracks in the sidewalks.

Reflections morph single gestures of love,

panes muffle all the words that spur hour-long fights.

I take a late night taxi over the bridge.

In between boroughs there are endless windows.

I ask the cabbie,
“How many would you guess?”

Lackadaisically, he tells me,

“Just count the flickering blue squares.”

I number them like stars.

My lover and I lollygag in bed until the early

morning dew spots dry on the dirty glass.

Our dog moves back and forth over us, under and above

the sheets that smell like stale cigarettes.

The maddening loose manhole, car horns, bus hydraulics,

the bickering and babbling teenagers

become a cacophony outside our widow.

With the curtains open, the world can see

our bare skin and our messy hair.

Every year I move deeper into the ghetto.

Is it serendipity or gentrification

that helps safety follow me?

Maybe passersby see

me through my window. Do they

see me struggling or smiling?

Or maybe I’ve become obsessed

with other people’s windows

and all I want to do is sit in their living rooms

for a change.

Words from by Rebecca DeWitt-Fix's Facebook Status (and the comments)

Too Cold

Rarely does a New Yorker
admit their longing
for a feeling
of quiet openness--
a feeling that rises inside
once we won't be swallowed
up by this brownstone
or that skyscraper.

But the first thing every New Yorker
does when outside the graph paper
grid is look up.

We look up
and regain openness.

Clusters of clouds follow us in the city
but we want to soak up the stars--
wet our skin with their glow
and carry their warmth
back to our tiny apartments.
We put them in our beds,
our bathtubs,
and in our shoes
so we can take them out
when we feel like we're suffocating.

New Yorkers never forget
how stars look
but we fool ourselves:
Just after dusk,
millions of windows
reflect their lights
onto the Hudson.

But it's too cold.

Multisensorial Time

I touched time

57 and counting

My reflection stayed the same.

10:19 a.m

I do not feel the sun move,

only shadows.

I touched time

57 and counting

My reflection stayed the same.

10:19 a.m

I do not feel the sun move,

only shadows.

12:00

Time scrambles, falls, and scatters

across my pillow, down to my toes.

2:00

3:00

5:00

The baby pigeons fall from the ledge

16 1/2 times every 60 seconds.

7:00

Affected by winter smells

of rot, sounds like pigeons

eating chicken bones.

10:19 p.m

Numbers Poem

Today I looked at the clock
57 times
and counting

She napped for
45 minutes.

She fell on average
16 1/2
times every
60 seconds.

I taught her how to blow her nose.

I’ve not seen the sun move, only shadows.

12 2 3 5 7

My reflection’s stayed the same.

10:19 p.m

Unaffected by the winter.

2-25

6 days after I'm 23.

Calories:

45

210

180 x 2

60 x 6

360

190

120 x 4

I wonder how

130 still.

Nicholas Whitaker’s 5 Words

Changes

He’s outside the bodega:

“You’re a slave to money,

then you die.”

We’ve on lived on the line between

denial and actualization for decades now.

“Change?”

He’s outside the subway:

“You’re a slave to the symphony of

trying to make ends meet.”

The melody the mind builds,

the songs of propaganda

in our ears

—whispers to screams—

all day.

All night.

“Change?”

He’s outside the restaurant:

“You’re a slave to your cravings,

always with a full plate.”

Hors d’oeuvres galore—

clothes then cars

turning into endless collateral.

We’re purging the preponderance

of debt and going back

for seconds.

“Change?”

He’s outside the White House:

“You’re a slave to the hegemony

in charge of your false hopes.”

Buy Low, Sell High—

War on Terror

Freedom Fries

American Built

Bankrupt

Bail Outs

American Express

There’s no way to break

Even.

“Change?”

He’s knocking on your door:

“You should be a slave to enlightenment

but your eyes have adjusted to the darkness.”

We’re talking about

transforming a thought,

altering an action.

We’re talking about

the realization of individualization,

the recreation of appreciation.

"We're talking about

sparing some change.”

BIG News!

Hey Everybody!

I have officially been published in a magazine...not an online literary journal but a real hard copy magazine. It's called Instigatorzine and it's an art and literature publication that's super funky and awesome. I have four poems on a whole spread so go to instigatorzine.com and buy a pdf copy ($2) or a REAL HARD-COPY (with shipping it's $4.30). It's so worth it because it's my words in there!

Thanks so much for keeping up with my blog!

This is the edition I'm published in, it's pretty sweet.

Death Bed

You died in our bed,
I wrapped my arms
around your skeleton
for the rest of the night.

I watch your ghost endlessly
pace around our room.

Sometimes
in the early morning light
you kiss my cheek.

Our neighbors
tell me to let you go
but they can't hide
from your voice
through the walls
when we fight.

Even after death
we can't make it right.

A silly videos

Confessional (A video rendition of the poem I wrote from Dan's words)

So bad that it's funny.

Here's another one from the words Sean gave me.

Trevor Freedland's 5 words

pigeon, moses, shower, cage, death

Am I running that fast

or is your head shrinking?

I’m out of my cage,

but I don’t feel like a bird.

I am a man—

ignoring red lights

children, cars,

and the crazies

on each corner—

just running and running.

Am I running too fast

because every pigeon

is a tiny cannibal?

They pick away at chicken bones,

reminding me for a moment

that mine will ache tomorrow.

I want to kick the bird meat

out of their bird mouths

but that would take minutes

off my mile time.

Am I running that fast

or is death catching up?

Maybe that’s the sound

ringing in my ears

and the lights I see

when I blink my eyes.

But I keep running.

Running around the city

that never sleeps.

Am I running too fast

because you are turning into Moses

with a new set of 10 commandments?

You would join me

if I left frantic messages

on our fridge.

You would join me

if we were not

our futures,

our defenses.

You should join me.

When I run I am not

my nametag,

or my failures,

or the why and how come.

Don’t panic, don’t be paranoid,

Just run.

Am I running that fast

or have all the leaves

fallen on your head too?

The whole world climbed up a tree

and I’m running at the speed of sound.

I can see how it all began

and if you could see, you would understand.

I’m running and running

around the last corner,

off the last curb

across the last crack

up the last step

into the door.

You smile.

I shower.