We interrupt this regularly scheduled blogging...

...to bring you some self promotion. Earlier this year (July, I think), I was interviewed for a Blogger Beat podcast episode.

Trisha Lynn Fawver and I chatted about all things personal blogging--but most specifically about "writing boundaries" and breaking through creative blocks.

I haven't listented to the finished episode yet but it was a fun conversation, so give it a whirl if you have time.

And, in other self promotional news, I'll be reading tonight at Luna's Cafe ( 8 p.m., 1414 16th Street)  as part of the quarterly series. A couple of poems including, maybe, this one:

“Words do what they do”

You will not escape unpunished; this will

find you like a dog trained for blood;

the scent brutal, cold, metallic.

Hunt you, push you deep into piss-puddled streets and coffee cup gutters,

until you’re coated with taxi-choked exhaust;

fighting sad-eyed ghosts with toothless smiles.

You must run, run, run;

never look back; even if you think

you’ve outpaced revenge.

You’re not lucky. No.

You must fall into a heart-sized abyss of fear;

you must pour a thimble-full of regret;

you must grieve a sense of loss, bigger than Texas.

You can retell the story a million times.

Change the ending, repaint the truth.

Forget the names; shift the blame.

But this will not carry into dust.

Words do what they do.

You will not escape unpunished.

You cannot burn bridges.

Ashes always flutter—float the sky, smother everything.

Now, crime scene evidence: letters shoved into drawers, buried beneath layered silk.

Hidden photographs, even with their scratched-out faces—

become proof of wanting. Waiting. Willing a return.

You will not escape unpunished.

Your face will fold into itself, crease into ugliness.

Hair will pale to gray; fall out. Fall away.

You did it. You wanted it. You made it so.

You will not escape unpunished.

Even as you build altars of apology:

Tiny dolls, made-up whore faces.

Small offerings mean nothing.

You stupid, stupid girl.