Wednesday, July 26, 2017

I had a dream

that a tiny bird
flew into
my room.

each time it hit
a wall
or floor
it grew and grew
until it could carry me away.

he was tired
but wouldn't let me help.

i took his picture
from every stance and angle.
finally, he fixed
his beak toward me,
the lens.

and there was a tickle
at my palm.

stirred away 
by the kissable 
fingers or my infant son
whose tiny chest
rose and fell 
as if he 
had been flying.
though his own dreams.
or maybe


I used to have to be grounded
to read.
I loved to read
I used to read my words
And anxiety over others readingmy words engulfed my dreams.
Once there was time
to read
words. Words.
And all mixed up.
Or misspelled could pay
or enticed.
words words words words.
And now I have to scrape
them off my shoes
or find them in the bathroom
or between the sheets
or in the car
at a red light.
Sometimes after a photo of my kids.
just because I am no longer
by words I love
or could find only
a single breath
does not mean they are not out
of mind.
I surround
myself with letters
until the words find
their way back to me.
and then
I will read.
Then maybe

Friday, July 14, 2017

He's a Rabbit

who traded his blood for ink.
Cut from paper with endless
typewriter ribbon,
dressing his wounds.

Finds comfort in the dust
that coats his words--
in the tangle of lost
poems between
ticking clocks and
sun showers through leaves.

He loves the woods
so hard others don’t have
the strength to hear.

He’s almost a shadow
who hums the taste
of what he wants.

He wonders about his bones.

But it’s a slow steady
shrinking into thinking…

What about the rain?

He could disintegrate.
He’s gone unless
he can create.

She conjures up a second heart
to house his sweet pain.
No windows to the world,
only time.

Thankful he’s not ripping.

He needs her.
She drags him from the brink of madness--
the forest’s edge.
Far away from his habit-forming insecurities.

Can he stop looking back
at what might have been?

She holds him close
and frees him from his fear to breathe.
A small tear where fur should grow.

She carries him close, pulls the arrows
from his back.

If only he stopped being frightened of a day--
wasted away,
of being alive.

The sun sets.

And nearing the end,
Tick tock,
or is it click clack?
Keys printing ink on paper.

Life is a circle--
running from the past
from the future.

He’s browning.
He’s wrinkling.

Maybe there’s a moon,
maybe it’s the fullness of his muse.
He hears the howling in the dark,
runs to catch her.

Pressed now, untouched in a book.

Thursday, February 13, 2014

My Wedding Vows (Valentine's Day Special)

So in my absence a lot has happened. I got married to the love of my life and we're moving to Colorado in a few weeks! With tomorrow being Valentine's Day (and my Valentine's birthday) I thought I would share with you the only piece I've written in a long time, except for my small series of TypeWriter Poems that I may post online someday.

Please enjoy.

I put a lot of pressure on myself, at first, to create zealous poetry out of our affection.  But what I became aware of after writing my vows about 50 times in my head is that is our love is simple—not in the unsophisticated or ordinary meaning, but in the sense that our love is so true that it’s now uncomplicated.  The first two years were anything but simple and I’m thankful for those tough points in our history because it was getting through them, along with all the awesome moments in the last five years, that shows me we’re meant to be together.   We’ve been into and out of so many ups and downs already: from that building that, literally, fell on us to the 2010 World Cup; from happy Jackson surprises to frustrating circumstances, from skating through the streets of Brooklyn to quiet nights drinking wine at home. Which is why I know that life can hit us with all it’s got and we’ll keep on supporting each other’s dreams, we’ll never stop trying to make each other laugh, and we’ll always find new ways to comfort one another. Saying you are my best friend is an understatement; you are more than my partner, lover, collaborator, and teammate, you’re more than my soul mate.  The only word I can think of to signify what you are to me is perfect. You are so wise yet wonderfully silly, you’re so genuine even if it gets you in trouble, and you’re beyond amazing as a father and provider. You are my match, my other half. You are my Yahtzee. I won’t start on how happy I am about spending the rest of my life with you because then we’d be here into the night, but I will say that I’m grateful for our simple love because it’s in the way we breathe, the way we eat, and sleep, our love is simple because we let it wrap around our little family and we know that no matter how complicated life can get our love for each other will always get us through.

Sunday, January 20, 2013

My absence, explained.


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.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

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)

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

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.

Monday, April 11, 2011

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.


Time scrambles, falls, and scatters

across my pillow, down to my toes.




The baby pigeons fall from the ledge

16 1/2 times every 60 seconds.


Affected by winter smells

of rot, sounds like pigeons

eating chicken bones.

10:19 p.m

Friday, December 17, 2010

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.


6 days after I'm 23.




180 x 2

60 x 6



120 x 4

I wonder how

130 still.

Monday, November 15, 2010

Nicholas Whitaker’s 5 Words


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.


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.


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.


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


Bail Outs

American Express

There’s no way to break



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.”