I recently posted the text of my poem that was censored from KXCI's A Poet's Moment. In place of "Lament of a Double Bass," they did air another poem of mine, which I wanted to share here. I wrote it in response to a prompt given on Robert Lee Brewer's blog, Poetic Asides, which is hosted by Writer's Digest. Come to think of it, this is a love poem, so it's the perfect day to post it. Happy Valentine's Day, everybody!

So We Decided to Take Over the Block,

I'm interrupting Avatar Week to bring you some news: this week, I became the first poet ever to be censored from KXCI's show A Poet's Moment. Although the show's host, Ron Cipriani, recorded three of my poems and had planned to air the second one for the usual cycle of time slots, someone else at the station decided to pull it after the first airing. 

Although I heard that the problematic phrase "blue balled" was cited as the reason for censoring the poem, I rather agree with my friend Kristen, who suggests that the poem's overall sensuality may have triggered the pushback, since our Puritanically rooted culture is uncomfortable with sensuality and eager to make the leap from there to sexuality. The words "blue balled" would be easier to latch onto and complain about than the poem's overall tone. Ron is playing the other poem of mine that he recorded this week, one that I would call a lark, instead of this better poem, written in the voice of my husband's musical instrument, which, I imagined, might be jealous of me. That's right, this is a poem about the relationship between a musical instrument and a musician, and it was too racy for radio. So, without further ado, here is the poem.

Yeah, I see you, dude, and you're kind of an asshole.

This is what I would expect Neytiri's response to be after she makes zahelou (hair lock) with Jake Sully. (By the way, why doesn't she know everything his mind after they mate? Possible continuity flaw, or maybe lack of explanation of zahelou). I have no problem with flawed characters; in fact, I prefer them. So I was willing to see how our notorious member of the Jarhead clan might evolve over the course of James Cameron's Avatar. In the end, I was not moved.

The theatrical release did not show enough of Jake's evolution. I had little sense of how he felt about being a traitor to the Na'vi while he was actually betraying them because the movie never shows him really freaking out about it. Almost as soon as he meets her, Jake clearly has feelings for Neytiri, the chief and shaman's daughter. Yet, Jake is not merely a passive member of the science team who "knew this would happen," as Neytiri discovers when the Sky People come to attack Home Tree. He actively performs recon for Colonel Quaritch, who is not his direct superior, but who asks Jake to spy on the Na'vi based on a sense of loyalty instilled by his military background. When the colonel, head of security for the mining base, asks Jake if he'll be a double agent and report to him, Jake agrees without any sign that it bothers him. It doesn't seem to bother him either when he provides structural details about Home Tree that will later allow the attack on it to succeeded.

I've seen it twice, and I have too much to say about Avatar to get it all out in one sitting. So I'm dubbing this week Avatar week. The first point I want to make is simple: Avatar and audience responses to it put one more nail in the coffin of the myth that speculative fiction is essentially "escapist," at least any more than any fiction is essentially escapist.

Avatar, which may be on track to become the highest-grossing movie of all time, is clearly engaging people en masse. Is this because the economy is bad and everyone wants to get away from the grind of everyday life?

Park Bench, a dangerous thing

to lie on [under normal circumstance]

he has shot me in the neck

One morning, after a night of dreamless sleep, Sasha was surprised to awaken in her bed and find herself transformed into a strange machine. Her fingers, which were once crude flesh, had become metal rods, sticky at the ends—perfect for filing. Her arm joints were soldered together on hinges. She stood up. Her breathing was flawlessly even and her heartbeat had lost its murmur. At her hips she found a monitor with mail merge on the toolbar. Sasha inspected her profile in the mirror and discovered her face to be a mask behind which gears turned in her mastoid unit, processing data received through her ocular chips. How long had this been happening? And how could she have failed to notice? Wires carried messages down to Sasha’s well-oiled toes. They moved when she told them to, but she could not feel a thing.

Yesterday, I recorded three poems for KXCI's A Poet's Moment, hosted by Ron Cipriani. It was a lot of fun. I really enjoy recording for radio. One of these poems, posted below, will be played several times this week on KXCI Tucson 91.3 FM. Ron is saving the other two for a rainy day.

If you're out of radio range from KXCI, you can still hear the program through their Web site, which streams the station live.

The following are the dates and times my poem "Willow, Alaska" will play on A Poet's Moment:

Last week, I went to Portland. I experienced the majesty of Powell's Books and the serenity of the Japanese Gardens, saw Mount Hood and even Mount Saint Helens in the east. In all, it was beautiful--green, lush, everything my native California heart yearns for after a Tucson summer.

One of the greatest parts of my trip was getting a tour of the Writers' Dojo, an enterprise that Tucson writers might be interested to know about. The dojo is a physical space on the one hand, a two-story building nestled among cherry trees and black-eyed Suzies. I had to remove my shoes to enter. The bamboo floor was cool under under my feet. Potted plants and red-gold rugs decorated the ground floor, and on the wall hung a framed quote calligraphed on rice paper: "the tears i shed yesterday have become rain."

Members of the dojo are invited to lounge on canvas and leather couches or sit at sturdy desks to read and write. Upstairs, writers enjoy total concentration in the quiet area. As I toured the grounds, complete with a martial arts center next door, I realized that I could feel quite at home in this space so carefully designed to enrich creative life.

                The road down the mountain is narrow, lit only by your headlights. You steer the Montero carefully around each curve, keeping it all contained, for Rose’s sake.

                “I want Daddy!” she says for the hundredth time. The lace hem of her dress hangs in her fist. She does not understand words like separation. Her long legs kick at the dashboard. 

                You remember the way Rick looked at you when you left, how his shoulders trembled as you closed the door. “I’ll never take you back,” he said, and his eyes dulled.

I have always pined a bit over the life I could have had as a mathemetician because I would love to be able to visualize more than four dimensions. This tutorial allows you to perceive up to ten dimensions without having to crunch the numbers. Way cool. Check it out!
http://www.boingboing.net/2009/08/18/visualizing-up-to-te.html