Friday Night Writes: TONIGHT!


Here’s what you do: Write.

Here’s how long you do it: For as long as humanly possible, until the stars come out and then go away again.

Here’s what you write: Anything. Write anything. Write.

Here’s when it starts: Right after the day job. Get your ass home and write.

Good luck.




The First Miracle of the Day




The sandhill crane enters
the race at daybreak, declaring
she would be president of the day
with her promise of flight
and her lopsided laugh through that window
I forgot to close and latch last night.

The demos is up at dawn
and demands to be reckoned with
chickadees are into the pollen,
the birch crowds surround the house
to shout their green slogans
Now! Now! Now!

All right, already, I’m up
putting away my fraught dream
of a black-haired woman
carrying her child to safety—already forgetting
who the woman was, what safety offered—all I’m left
is the weight of the child and the drone
of the mother’s voice singing one word
over and over against the child’s temple

but now the word is gone
and the child has no name.

If these magpies would shut up,
job job job
and the light is hurting my eyes
Yes, Sun, I am aware
and awake and registered

in this world that did not crumble in the night
despite the plastic catastrophe of yesterday

Even the deaf can hear
the distant thunder of the unlocked
rivers rumbling in their march to join the sea

Even the blind can see
the tangerine light
velveting every surface
with un-temperate warmth

Even the dead understand
the gossip of contemporary worms budging downward
to the anthracitic rooms of ancient worms
the earth is untightening
making space for more of us

The Elect will know who they are
soon enough for already the first miracle of the day
travels ding-toed and nose down
along our dirt road, the collie named Hola!
leading Erma, my eighty-year-old neighbor
toward a brightening mountain in the East

From behind she looks like a waterfall
her waist a vigorous coursing, supple and clear,
her free hand a flower floating at her side

The sandhill croaks one last time
from on high amongst her rally of clouds
but Erma’s eyes are poor
so when she looks up
she spills into blue



— Arlitia Jones, April 30, 2016





Friday Night Writes… Tonight!


You’re invited to Friday Night Writes!

Here’s the drill: come home tonight, do whatever you need to do to get the stink of the day-job off you, make a snack, make some coffee, whatever you need, then pull up a chair and write.

Write late into the night. Write til the lead breaks or the ink runs dry. Write til you can’t hold your head up anymore. Don’t worry about the rest of the world. They’ll go out and party without you. And they’ll go to sleep without you. Just write. That’s all you have to do.

Good luck! I’ll see you at the 3 am paper shuffle. Post, if you feel like it, at #fridaynightwrites.




Things get wild here on Friday nights.  

Green and Happy and Dangerous

Aubade: Cesar Vallejo Wakes the Forest

-for E

Dawn comes dim and undeclared,

the sky is the mother’s face

sheltering her last child–

this is how revolution begins

Read More

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