Poems: now available!

People always ask me if they can buy my book, and I’m always like, “Oh yeah, I have these beautiful books I made, I should definitely make them available online somewhere so you can get one.” But then I never do it!

Well, I did it.

Handmade chapbooks of poems are here.

Poetry broadsides are here.

(Email me if you want to barter for either. US dollars are nice to have, but so is other people’s art.)

Now if you’ll excuse me, I must be going. I’m going to have a baby in about one minute, and there are a few more things that I should tend to before that arrival.

POEMS by Taylor Mardis Katz

Poem for Kerouac; poem out loud (mine) (you can listen to it).

Jack Kerouac’s word world is totally different than mine. He’s all


coat rack







& etc.

His words aren’t mine but I’d be a damn fool not to try some out. Here’s a poem I wrote on the couch on Kerouac’s birthday. Not an homage, more like a drunken text I’m sending him through time-and-space, saying, Hey, man. Next year: let’s celebrate our birthdays together. Next year: we’ll dance.


On Kerouac’s Birthday

When it comes to billiards I hear mathematics

is rather relevant so I better stay away.

Today on Chelsea Street the oblong “OPEN”

sign that hangs for all to see just sat

inside the storefront like a half-forgotten

letter. With weather like this even a goat

can get pants fulla ants: ready to kid,

to be ridda all this bald white stuff,

she might just sidle into an epidemic

bout of idleness. I tried to call my sis

“Swiss Miss” but she didn’t like the name.

It’s just her darn-cute ponytail & white

toothed grin I want to emulate, to raise

high above the roof beams, Seymour,

to the heights where garlic dries in summer.

Summer in the city means cleavage, cleavage,

cleavage, & the smell of sewage everywhere.

Pigs can clear the forest with their hooves

& bums I got to know out west can’t hear me

now, can’t see me now, can’t stop me now.



[photo by Allen Ginsberg]


Why not: a birthday collage.

Dear Scott,

I made you this internet collage comprised of (beautiful) images that remind me of you. I really hope you like it.




































coffee and whiskey













































Happiest of days to you, friend. I hope your weekend is full of even better things than Ellie giving the sneaky middle finger to you in a photo, though it’s hard to imagine what’s better than that.


Fur coat in February (includes photographs).

I was given a fur coat for my birthday this year (by my mother-out-law, who gives amazing presents–raw silk scarves & notebooks & dark chocolates & the most pristine and gorgeous hand-me-downs). I’m not here to give my opinion on fur, mostly because I’m not sure of my opinion on fur. But this is what I do know. This coat is a beauty. This coat is so warm that when I walk outside in it, I feel like I’m still inside. It covers my entire body and it is both warm and beautiful and utterly deluxe. Here’s a picture of me the day I was given it, which was a very very snowy Saturday, a day I was not expecting to leave the house but then I did and wonderful things happened.


Today I wore the coat outside to let out the chickies. The chickies had no sense of my my unnecessary glamour, but they were pretty pumped to hop up and out of the coop. Tomorrow, I’ll wear it to a black tie Academy Awards party downtown, which I am attending mostly so that I can wear my new fur coat. Also for the company. Also for general deluxeness, which is scarce in February in Vermont.


And soon friends will arrive in Vermont & it will be my birthday & I will wear the fur coat again. And then spring will come & the snow will melt revealing the hidden garlic & I will be twenty-seven & eager to plant things & eat them. And the fur coat will hang graciously on its soft pink hanger, waiting until I need it again.




Photos by Misha, who else.

Pisces come from under water (photo series).


A month ago, there was a birthday party. The theme was “under the sea” and I was a jellyfish and Ellie made me a crown.



There are streamers curled and dangling from my tutu but you can’t really see them. Misha’s hair was huge and awesome and we danced to the band for hours. Everyone sang happy birthday to me, Lauren, and Sara, my other Pisces of the party, and we all birthday-hugged each other while they sang.



And then the singing was over and we all went back to drinking. And dancing.



What a night!


(Thanks to Colleen Dawson for taking these photos. They’re wonderful!)



I dreamt of Chicago (recap) (mine).


I went to Chicago last weekend, or at least I think I did. I got a cold pretty soon after arriving and as the days went on I got foggier and foggier. It felt like I was peering out of two small telescopes from inside my body. And now that I’m back in San Diego, where it’s 75 degrees…the whole thing feels even more like a dream. A dream where


I flew on an airplane with writers from San Diego and drank bloody Marys

then ate a pizza so thick it reminded me why they’re called pizza pies

then got picked up outside the pizza restaurant by Eric Suffoletto in a blue Lexus

and we drove to a bar with thick curtains attached to the ten-foot ceilings and drank cocktails fit for a princess at a picnic

and afterwards we drove through a scene from “The Dark Night”

then Katie Conway arrived and we ate green curry with scallops and bought tights and tissues at CVS

and I heard Nikki Giovanni talk in a big room with chandeliers and she reminded me about surrounding myself only with people who love me

and there were a lot of hip people selling books with confusing poems inside

and I ate French fries with brie and mushrooms on top

and it was my birthday

and everyone was calling me but I couldn’t talk

and Ilya Kaminsky sang happy birthday to me and it was a hilarious treasure

and I rode the el and took a taxi cab and wore a turtleneck and various hats

and named Katie’s boyfriend “the maestro of love” and drank wine in the hotel room

and it was flurrying and freezing and the wind was coming from every direction

and I met the woman who wrote the poem about herpes in the Beloit Poetry Journal and I told her she was doing an important thing for the world

and I bought books and journals or took them off tables

and Kate Gale was there and we sat in taupe armchairs and talked and she said hello to a dozen famous people whose names I knew but not the faces

and there was a secret present from Misha snuck into my bag

and on the train it was snowing and Dean was hungover and Jen had so many bags she looked like a vagabond Amazon with fancy belts

and the guy at security took my lotion away

and outside the airport San Diego was hot and over-bright as if lit by bulbs stolen from the rest of the country and there’s Misha in our car waving like he does with one hand raised up, not moving, just raised in hello



Birthday poem for Kyle (I wrote it).

Like a mini-mart off the highway,

Kyle Martindale gets older. Unlike

most poets, Kyle’s often on his way


from the gym, where he was rowing

on a machine outta water. Kyle got

hitched, hiked paths, chose classic


reggae, and flew on airplanes this year,

and that’s just this year. Not even gonna

count up all the feats he finished


during the other twenty-four. Hey

Kyle, we miss you here, the way

you’d decide on dancing most times


and eat the same beany slop three

meals a day, sometimes in a good bowl

from home, on the go, on campus. Hey


Kyle, there are people that you know

that don’t know how to handstand like

you do. But Kyle, we know you’d teach


us if we asked. You always do.