Skipping this writers conference made me feel guilty enough to write a poem.
When there are so many limits on what you can write about, what can you write about?
Let others bask in the surety of sunlight. You were born of the moonlight tribe.
Sometimes I imagine someone. It turns out to be no one. Unless...
The beauty of the Hebrew, the imposition of the commandment, and the laughter of the night, tie us together. I I forget everything; the picket lines, the ugly words, and the deep, searing, inner heartbreak of a people that have failed me.
Infinity wants nothing so much as to fit its limitless rampant vastness into the littlest of spaces.
Freedom drives my life, but maybe I need to transcend it.
Stop confusing righteousness with pathology. It’s insulting to actual tzaddikim.
A house is not a home, but a bookshelf can be.
Purim Sameach from your friendly neighborhood sacred feminine uprising!
