Tag Archives: New Jersey Poet
Happy #Freedumb Holidays to Our Good Friend @Chewstroke! Love, #njpoet
Michael Bay eating a bowl of cereal! aka Happy Birthday @LukeMulks! Love, #njpoet
Happy Holidays! from everyone @ #njpoet
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There are a few of us now. Besides me and Luz, there are new friends and colleagues floating around “behind the scenes” here @ #njpoet. We’ve been emailing, chatting, texting, plotting…
Heh. Heh.
Thank you to everyone who helps me do what I do. You are all family to me.
And to everyone who retweets, reposts, likes, shares, and consistently reads along,
you make my surreal life concretely awesome.
TY. TY. TY.
Bring on 2013!
Wait! Is that a comet in the sky?!
Just kidding… 2012 joke…
#njpoet
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Every Now and Then I Feel That My Existence is Justified #njpoet
Reason has nothing to do with it. #njpoet #memoir
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If you use your imagination, transform the analyst into a very frail, broadly smiling woman, mid 70s, then this video—from the John Ritter film, Skin Deep—accurately represents the eight years I spent working with Harriet Wilson, LCSW, of Montclair, New Jersey.
Harriet died suddenly in 2005, just before I entered my PhD program. I still miss her mind deeply, and think of her advice often. She taught me that our feelings about our feelings can lead to emotional trouble, and that, because of this, we must be critical of the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves.
In the seven years since Harriet’s death, sticking with a regular therapist has been difficult. She remains irreplaceable.
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Gas Prices: a poem #njpoet
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CLICK ON
—feel your mind squeeze
the throat—choke—a beatendown car—a side road—an open
window retreat—wind throughthe trees—a natural static
hissing beneath the traffic—it’s harsh slapping
doppler vibrations—past the corporate glass
dildos raping the sky—inch byinfected inch—all for profit—for
internal combustion and a wheezing,a hissing noise pollution—just turn them off—
they vomit—all of our various engines—at the count of a decade—and maybe
we’ll hear the breeze again—
Continue Exploring
:: memoirs in fragments ::
By Charles Bivona
» Enter Here «
—
Or
Check Out
Poetry & Poetics w/ Charles Bivona
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#CBAnthology
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She said I’m a Twitter star—whatever that means.
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She didn’t know I was sobbing. My hands were shaking: anxiety. I misspelled every other word. She said she didn’t mind. She reads my writing. We’ve been chatting on and off for months. I’ve never seen her face. I only know her avi. That’s Twitter speak. An avi is the little picture that represents you in the stream. Stream: that’s more Twitter speak. They say I’m a Twitter star—whatever that means. My friend, the female avi, just popped up in my gmail chat—“I am so proud of you,” she wrote, but I didn’t know why. So, I asked her. She spoke in riddles—energy and divine spirit and true to soul. I told her my father beat the God out of me—childhood. She said, “that’s fine.” She loves me just the way I am—the scared little boy who became a poet. “Because Charlie,” she wrote, I assumed emphatically, “that’s what you are!”
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» njpoet.com «
[It's my Leaves of Grass]
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Play my fucking theme song, fellas…
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My fears hunt me down
Capturing my memories
The frontier of loss
They try to escape across the street where
Jesus stripped bare
And raped the spirit he was supposed to nurture
In the name of my
In the name of my
Born of a broken man
But not a broken man
Born of a broken man
Never a broken man
Word.
