When in dignity, Carrying with grace people don’t even know How difficult
When it’s the gambler & the detective The energy does not lie You gambled With the wrong heart
When the sun bows to the moon
When it’s kinship Pulling focus
How do you get your light bright enough, the dragonfly knows, listen she's popping. Beware, the eloquent burn; your heart may turn to stone. stones can split open, create rivers. stones fall and bow, divine. The Tiffany windows at the Met— what the other realms looking like. Beware,
How you spend your light
jukebox
diary archive
for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:
You could knock me over with a feather. Thank you, manywor(l)ds for curating and nominating my poem. I am humbled and grateful for your recognition and to be honored in such a stellar cohort.
I encourage you, beloved reader, to explore all of manywor(l)ds’ nominees for poetry, fiction, art, and nonfiction. As always, thank you for completing the poem with you care and attention.
Check out the poetry jukebox here where I read this baby aloud.
I am humbled and honored to report that Boudin, the spicy online cousin to The McNeese Review, curated two of my poems—“a man of winter” and “tricky honey”—in their “Imagine: Summer II” issue. This is a dream come true. I love writing and I love sharing that with you. Thank you.
Thank you to Editor Vallie Lynn Watson and Managing Editor Abbie Skinner for considering and curating my poetry, and for putting this issue together.
Thank you readers. Without you, these poems would be incomplete. I hope you enjoy your time with them. I encourage you to pore over the pages of this and past issues of Boudin‘s riveting delights.
Love, Kate
P.S. – yes, the monthly diary cycle has been on an impromptu hiatus… from publishing, that is. I am still writing and may have a surprise or two up my sleeve… Stay Tuned, love.
Lacerta, Cygnus, Lyra, Vulpecula and Anser”, plate 14 in Urania’s Mirror | Source
When the paperback is two backs curved gently together Chests closing into embrace a fire like Beltane, I fish my nets only to stop and say cheers,
When it’s camping season, tents afire and the kindling are the children and the adults in the room hunger for hot, young blood. Brutal gimmes.
When my motivation is desire, not innocence, but my éclat. The benefics perfecting together in my pasture. Ours to share right now. And I wonder who else will find.
Time to burn the candle pink. When age’s lip sync reveals down to legacy down to a pair of fire bugs burning across the tree us two, you and me, blood of Gawain.
She holds an umbrella when she dances machucá lo. Machucá lo. Machucá lo. When she dances, she stomps. When I saw you, I knew.
When it’s pugilistic poetry rising and I love that. Let’s keep that energy let’s keep the flag flying. Let’s lift our children, we are Mother. All these kids are our kids. Look at our fortune.
When we are poetry in motion in the face of pluto, giving face • face • face Let’s get smashmouth.
[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:
When it’s a playful sun. A fistful. That’s how I clean now, with my fist.
When a friend brought me here. 1993 but I’ve been here before but I didn’t know what to listen for. The pink rotary phone cradled to me with my patience and devotion for you. Please.
When it was Jim Carrey, revisited, unbidden; movies and acorns; a pocket brought me here. Eat your hat—a lotus leaf —catching into jumping fire into your arms, you fly.
When she can tell me herself her first favorite movie, favorite song: The Dance of the Happy Forest Sprites & The Monster Who Loves You
—When you’re not crazy, it is indeed war crimes upon war crimes upon war crimes upon War crimes upon war—
spinning Sundaze with my pufffluff baby orange tiger tree-watching under the orchid bough.
When the nickel jukebox takes a dime so it’s lowpoly slowerpace and his green erotic bray for me. Crawling home to me.
When I belong in ‘90s London [rave piano] When I belonged—the canary horse cottage working-dog-shattered windowglass-and-frame When you belong you know: tears spring.
When you tell us you're above it all you show us how boring.
Stay in the pocket. When you Stay in the pocket surfing barrels-to-thread out of pocket slipping a stitch ride the needle singing Now is the time to stand out, Powerline. Now is the time to count.
When [REDACTED] —that was some heat there. How bout it, Laocoön? My teeth / like butter to flesh like you. / You won’t feel a thing. Anyway, Thank you, Natasha Richardson, for saving my life every time with your hug.
Now that I’ve blown off some steam—
[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:
[Scales I] let it steep, let me weep let me under our birth swims creep
When the camphor tree spells tells me <<we're home>>
When outside of therapy, I still love me.
When standing, even alone, I still have roots. They grow
When the horns become a ring a big light monocle, I see.
When this baby calls out the flight of the airplane
When the definition of moonfull is the snow
When soil at the same time sings vetiver straining credulity, springing too soon?, straining seasons into new expectation Which will confound you again.
Where I see strangers She says ‘hey there neighbor!’
When I won’t wake, when i weep from dreaming, the dream is decided
When your body is your mind, So, move it, animal.
Orgiastic, his green branches and his That Voice rutting with me
When we sang together feeling the swim Coming for our bones, the hot dogs of summer and the culling hounds of winter. When the snow
returned to us for one—night of our first fire borne sacral in our seasoned house, the babe's a’rest at the top of the stairs. Warm blanket, warm sun to rise in her corner.
[Scales II] When you see me, cold as stone, I'm still your blood, now go on, go Go ahead cry with that lone eye the other I plucked, trust my warning was kind. It's not for me to steal your losses.
When I run again. My Hokas burning up and my favorite music when it's my pleasure, my strength no escape.
[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:
On February 25, 2024, Aaron Bushnell self-immolated outside of the Israeli Embassy in Washington, D.C. in protest of U.S. complicity in the ongoing genocide of Palestinians.
TW: image of self-immolation to follow in…
3…
2…
1…
Credit: Twitter
I will no longer be complicit in genocide. I’m about to engage in an extreme act of protest. But compared to what people have been experiencing in Palestine at the hands of their colonizers, it’s not extreme at all. This is what our ruling class has decided will be normal.
—Aaron Bushnell
Video with segment of Bushnell’s livestreamed protest here; does not show the self-immolation.
I admire Aaron Bushnell’s code of honor and personal integrity and bravery. Rest In paradise, dear soul.
hello darlings— My poem “my pretty redwood” now lives at Rat’s Ass Review’s Spring/Summer 2024 issue. It is an honor to be included in this collection of beautiful poetry and in this eccentric electric delightful poetry journal. I am grateful my poem has its new home. Thank you to Editor Roderick Bates. As ever, I hope you enjoy reading.
Hunter’s Affects no. 1: Winter Tour 2024 | EiC Alannah Guevara; cover by Tom Stockman
Hello darlings—
I am honored that two of my poems, “The Enemies’ Disease” and “everything i do is beautiful”, have been published in Hunter’s Affects no. 1: Winter Tour 2024. (be sure to check out the soundtrack, too!) Thank you to Editor-in-Chief/One-Woman Band Alannah Guevara for everything. It’s a delight to be included, I hope you all enjoy reading.
I. Myth Astride ice mountains, a mood daguerrotype of the demoted planet. Out in the cold swarmed by the wounded healer, the hateful river and the river’s cousin the serpentine of dreadful resilience. Shunted outside the galaxy. Still, we do not escape metamorphoses.
II. Home sphere It’s the neighbors again. Their drip annoys, their curb appeal draws your stomping boot. In This market? Pluto’s loyal diamonds advise "Buy!-Buy!-Buy! “It’ll never be so good again.” Interest pays some and cuts both ways.
Class wars was a cute joke but here are the keys— It ain’t no fucking game. Ain’t no fucking way. You will see. You will covet your lost privacy. Your only solace the delirium that you did not pay to give it away.
Déjà vu: closing the blinds.
III. Sisters, brothers When the real weight on you is the knock that you are not at home in your own body.
When the real work is to take space. Terrifying, no? Say, No. On your own behalf. That’s Enough.
When you act like it will kill you to tell her how you feel. That wall lies, BTW. No matter if you built it.
When it’s not peace. It’s liberation. Justification will only leave you colder. Desecrated cemeteries envy you. Now give over the keys everybody go home.
IV. Sonnez les matines When Elvis haunts me, his plaints his sad When I make my baby a peanut butter and banana milkshake to soothe those cutting teeth and I finally feel the love for The King. Power melted him. I hope he was earnest as I believe he was. I pray—whether he is an alien or dead—he is free.
V. Leave This is what power makes of me: a reach to god.
What offerings shall there be to Lord Death? Hmm… Did I mention I’m not into wine? Not this pale suburbia mama, no Sirree, sorry not sorry. I beg your pardon, but haven’t You had enough? Haven’t you been on the dole too long?
VI. The Secret Kick Her hiss is a kiss I'll eat it all up, please. I may be a Sag but I love me Thee Stallion.
This winter is unearthly beautiful despite the plagues, despite the genocide. Must be some of that Snow, Tina. Must be some of that pinkwash heart glow that the shareholders could never kill nor take. After all, This Is Regeneration Season for the next 20 years.
[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:
When it’s Christmas at Graceland and his sweat —Elvis’, that is— bygone king pours but the keys pour more rain down on me since Rapid City ‘77 nothing those spent red soda cups could hold busy holding him together with suit sequins and leather
Just like the melody, thank God It’s unchained. May we all be. rivers get lonely, too. How could that be? swim, stay next to me. Resembling eternity.
The devil takes the water, The devil makes it mine, The devil tells me, Quiet now, All will be fine... Just give me all your power.
But when it’s six years a wife and nearly two a mother, thank God The waves make clear— The fight is surrender, The devil makes you choose —dignity or else— tortion is just another dance
Spell with your hips, tongue and lips— I am in love with you.
[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:
![Picture of Aaron Bushnell self-immolating with the following text from the Economic Times article: Before his planned self-immolation, Bushnell reportedly sent a message to media outlets stating, “Today, I am planning to engage in an extreme act of protest against the genocide of the Palestinian people.” He also reportedly live-streamed the act on Twitch, which has since removed the video for guideline violations. “I will no longer be complicit in genocide. I’m about to engage in an extreme act of protest,” Bushnell repeated, as he walked towards the [Israeli] embassy, “but compared to what people have been experiencing in Palestine at the hands of their colonizers, it’s not extreme at all. This is what our ruling class has decided will be normal.” After dousing himself with liquid and reaching for his lighter, unidentified law enforcement or security officers could be heard asking off-screen, “can I help you?” After setting himself aflame, he repeatedly shouted, “Free Palestine.”](https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fe7ee039d-5fcd-4b00-992b-2e03574689ae_1125x2000.jpeg "Picture of Aaron Bushnell self-immolating with the following text from the Economic Times article: Before his planned self-immolation, Bushnell reportedly sent a message to media outlets stating, “Today, I am planning to engage in an extreme act of protest against the genocide of the Palestinian people.” He also reportedly live-streamed the act on Twitch, which has since removed the video for guideline violations. “I will no longer be complicit in genocide. I’m about to engage in an extreme act of protest,” Bushnell repeated, as he walked towards the [Israeli] embassy, “but compared to what people have been experiencing in Palestine at the hands of their colonizers, it’s not extreme at all. This is what our ruling class has decided will be normal.” After dousing himself with liquid and reaching for his lighter, unidentified law enforcement or security officers could be heard asking off-screen, “can I help you?” After setting himself aflame, he repeatedly shouted, “Free Palestine.”")
kate carsella 
