Rubie Marie

She’s been cocooned in a room at the hotel
Rubie Marie for three weeks.
There have been no outgoing calls.
The inside of room 221 looks like a scrapbook –

the walls padded with a mosaic of photos,
all the same small face:

a smile like a dark crease in white bedsheets,
layers of gray on the side of a milk carton.


New Orleans/the great adventure introduction

this morning, at the ungodly hour of 3:30 am, I dropped my boyfriend off at the airport in Nashville, TN and started out on my biggest journey thus far.

I’m pretty sure I talked about this journey sometime in the past, but it has been a while so I figure I’ll redo the introduction.  At the end of last summer, after a two week road trip up the east coast with my best friend, I decided I wanted to go on a solo road trip this summer. During that two weeks last summer, I wrote more poetry than I typically do in any single chunk of time, which was really exciting for me. So that is partially what this trip is about- my writing. But it is also about exploration, allowing myself to be young, and seeing more of the country. The trip will last about a month’ and I’ll be traveling down from New Orleans to Austin, TX across New Mexico and Arizona to California, up the coast, over to Utah, Colorado, Nevada, and finally back to Wisconsin. At least that’s the general plan.

Today was Day 1, so I can’t say I have all that much figured out just yet. I stopped for a lot of naps between Nashville and New Orleans,  I met several new awesome people (at the hostel I’m staying at and in the city), and got a nice intro to New Orleans.

Over the course of this trip, I think I am going to try to post poems as I write them, even if they are unfinished or just a little snippet of an image/idea.

Loves at 4:20 am         

To the man browsing t-shirts at  a Love’s travel center, the woman you will buy that t shirt for no longer remembers the breakfast you bought her.  You will not be able to get her on the phone. Her voicemail has never been set up. You have lived the last 3 months inside the reach of your headlights. You like some coffee with your cream. You don’t buy anything, but you touch each one anyway, read the tag to make sure they are all 100% cotton.

Creole restaurant on Magazine St.

Here, the water is king. It rises from cracks in the concrete, bubbling from saturated dirt – I mean mud- dribbling down cracked brick from roofs or Windows, forming splotches of red rubbed raw on  the inside of my thighs like patchwork. The sun tinted locals sit under porch fans gulping iced anything. The black men ride bicycles, sweat filling the tributaries in their faces.

Unfortunately, because I have an iPad and  not my computer, it goofs the spacing up every time I try to make that work. So I’m going to be formatting my poems as paragraphs for a while, unless I can figure something else out.

And so the journey begins!