If interested in having me for a reading, class visit, or conference/festival, please contact me at lorcaloca AT aol DOT com

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

paris bits

oh french, why do you torment me so?
spent the afternoon shopping for travel-size stuff. thrilling, i know. i spent an hour at target. i couldn't make up my mind between the lime-scented gel or the lime-scented bar of soap.
there's a white castle not far from me. i didn't know this. i'm in trouble.
weather forecast for paris: mid-to-high 40s. i can live with that! freak snow, stay away.
did i just jinx my trip?
things to do: talk to my bank, buy a power converter, pack, kiss a fool.
i love this store.

Monday, February 13, 2012

Looking forward to these books

Phyla of Joy by Karen An-hwei Lee

"There’s an undeniable audacity in a poet using the word “joy” in our beleaguered world. In her new book, Karen An-hwei Lee combines scientific precision and an appetite for far-flung vocabularies with a fascination for the sources of rapturous emotion."


American Copia: An Immigrant Epic by Javier O. Huerta

"Today I’m going to the grocery store,” begins this creative fusion of poetry, fiction and non-fiction. This is also the sentence Javier O. Huerta was given to write during his naturalization interview. Having lived in the U.S. for twenty years already, he was put off by the simplicity of the sentence. “I wanted to tell the INS agent that I could do things with the English language that she could never imagine,” he writes in the preface."


I saw once, in a rose garden, a remarkable statue of the Roman she-wolf and her twins, a reproduction of an ancient statue— not the famous bronze statue, so often copied, in which the blunt head swings forward toward the viewer like a sad battering ram, but an even older statue, of provenance less clear. The wolf had been cut out of black stone, made blacker by the garden’s shadows, and she stood in profile, her elegant head pointed toward something far beyond her, her long unmarked body and legs—narrower and more finely-boned than the body and legs of wolves as we know them—possessed, it seemed, of a great stillness, like the saturated stillness of the roses, but tightly-nerved, set, on the instant, to move. Under her belly, stood the boys, under her black breasts, not babes, as one might expect, but two lean boys, cut from the same shadowed stone as the wolf, but disproportionately small, grown boys no bigger than starlings, though still, like the wolf, oddly fine of face and limb, one boy pressing four fingers again one long breast, his other cupped beneath it to catch the falling milk, the second boy wrapping both arms around another breast, as if to carry it off, neither boy suckling, both instead turned toward you, dreamy, sweetly sly, as if to chide you for interrupting their feeding, or as if they were plotting a good trick… Beautiful, those boys among the roses. Beautiful, the black wolf. But it was the breasts that held the eye, a double row of four black breasts, eight smooth breasts, each narrowing to a strict point, piercing sharp, exactly the shape of the ivory tooth of the shark.

Brigit Pegeen Kelly

Saturday, February 11, 2012


good morning!
i'm getting nervous about my trip to paris. i keep thinking about terrible things that could happen to me. running into a pickpocket. my debit card not working. being stuck in a hotel that looks great online but sucks in person. etc.
josé antonio rodríguez: sunflowers.
i worry. it's what i do.
congrats to rita dove and john ashbery!
did i mention that i'm going to paris alone?
awp! it's fast approaching. i can't wait to walk around the bookfair, which is my favorite part of awp. all those tables, all those books and journals, all those people in love with words.
thank you, sara.

Sunday, February 05, 2012


Someone spoke to me last night,
told me the truth. Just a few words,
but I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up,
write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working
all day in the garden, moving rocks.
Now, I remember only the flavor —
not like food, sweet or sharp.
More like a fine powder, like dust.
And I wasn’t elated or frightened,
but simply rapt, aware.
That’s how it is sometimes —
God comes to your window,
all bright light and black wings,
and you’re just too tired to open it.

Dorianne Laux

Thursday, February 02, 2012


Morgan Lucas Schuldt has passed away.

Here's a poem from his book Verge:

Prayer I

If in this lure & lapse of bluff & of not
but in a field on a calendar day
if as knot if as rabble if the jinx to my sneeze the bye then to seem & if sigh-lent to sigh
if in your -est fetch & petties
& wayword if wasn’t just as much as ever
in your black dress
if for lull & for during if for a peek of reach unoriented
if life is & if rarely
so that if every anything if underway is underway is elsekiss is sign-done
if criss & cross-bent
if building on glances
is upbrights & downtruths spake _-side &
if believed
if wined for song (which is blood-summed)
and if hurried when all is facets

if verge
if that too & the tellabout ourloud rapid of mention
if beck & stall
if in where only if strop if edge if what-all depended from
if a simpling sun in all needs
if so everyway brimful of found unequally
if tasks, the rearranged dirt loop & you
loop & you if outluck
if lights & nothing so much as a roam
if shine for


Michael Schiavo provides some links to Morgan's poems.