Suspended Moment in Los Alamos

I’m honored to have the chance to perform this Sunday in my hometown!


Join us on the anniversary of the world’s first atomic test to experience Suspended Moment, a sculpture installation and Butoh dance and poetry performance by Los Alamos native Allison Cobb and Hiroshima native Yukiyo Kawano, with Butoh choreography/dance by Meshi Chavez, soundscape by Lisa DeGrace, and video projections by Stephen A. Miller.

At the center of the performance is a life-sized sculpture of the bomb dropped on Nagasaki in 1945, created by the artist Yukiyo Kawano. Yuki was born and raised in Hiroshima, a third-generation atomic bomb survivor. She creates her sculptures from WWII-era kimonos that belonged to her grandmother, and sews them together with her hair, melding the DNA of generations of atomic bomb survivors.

Co-sponsored by Los Alamos History Museum, Los Alamos/Japan Project, and Los Alamos County Library System. Funded in part by a grant from the New Mexico Intervention Fund of the National Trust for Historic Preservation.


Spark for Arvo Part

I wrote a poem responding to the beautiful song “Summa” by the Estonian composer Arvo Part, and my pal Andrea Murray interviewed me about it for National Poetry Month on Portland’s All Classical.

Here’s the poem:


for Arvo Pärt


Ache or

lift up

If. If

of touch


Of ice

light broke.

As ache

one spark


And kept

it, love,

I kept

that leap

as shape

in shining dark.


Photos by  Stephen A. Miller of our performance Tuesday at Littman White Gallery in Portland. Art by Hiroshima-native Yukiyo Kawano and poetry by me, a native of Los Alamos, where the atomic bombs were made. Our aim is to bring to life the human impact of nuclear weapons so they will never be used again. Please learn more and support our project at






A nasty woman has a vision

New poem. I feel pretty good about coming up with “pussyboard.”

A nasty woman has a vision

I have a vision, a vision that the people of this nation possessing of vaginas, those of every race and color and faith, of every state of wealth and poverty, with missing limbs and breasts, with scars and luscious rolls of fat, with the taut, uplifted skin of youth, in full health and sickness both, in every abled and disabled state—descend upon the marbled throne of power, and with our pussies overwhelm the gates, with our vaginas swallow up the guns and sights of snipers, with our pussies leaking blood and fluid drown the guards in Kevlar vests, flood the marble stairwells, swallow desks and pens, computers, bleed the written words to nothing, with our pussies redolent with scents of all our living, all our births and lusts, our coming and our fucking, pussies melon pink and eggplant dark, tucked in nests of fur curling black and grey and brownish, red as stripes on oval office couches, blond as velvet drapes, or bare and shining in the light—let us bring our pussies down upon the men of state, the orange one in his golden gaudy flesh suit pinched with hate, let us bring our pussies down and pussyboard them with our flood, let us grab them with our pussies, and sink them in our juice-wet folds, fingers on the buttons that swell ourselves and make our mucus flow, crying out with grunts of our own pleasure til their voices cease to gurgle from their lungs—and their breaths, every one, come to an end.