Monday, September 26, 2016

"If you suffer it is because of you, if you feel blissful it is because of you. Nobody else is responsible - only you and you alone. You are your hell and your heaven too." --Osho

Saturday, September 24, 2016

a slew of haiku

may the tongue keep wings
& lash unbashful tumbled
flight from perch, with bite

faceplant and footprint
the ground never looked so good
on our stupid hands

my bed of basil
in a love full of fences
grown coiled diamonds

It is how you can
smell a season. It is what
you tape to the walls.

Hills hides the dancers.
I look up and still myself
to see the clouds move.

Rare these days become--
the ones that threaten time,
the ones that feel like God.

Saturday, September 3, 2016


When you hold your hand up to the sun and it will not grow warm. And when you catch yourself saving tears for the long drives. It's time. Long due. Someone mumbles it or a skywriter catches you absent and spells it out in great chemical loops, or you can't sleep because of the growl in your knuckles where pens slip all slender ghost-like. Or you find it then lose it like thread in the bed covers and you spend all day digging through the soft with all that you've got. Or someone asks you, sweet and easily, when. Have you? Will you? And all the scenery says speak--the city and whip-whirl of ceiling fan. It all echoes have you? Will you?


or something like it (summertime, part two)

Thursday, July 21, 2016

or something like it (summertime, part one)

Summertime galore:
You cannot keep me indoors this time. Work, gym, late nights of youtube back-and-forths on a porch swing. Little things, large. Loud things, soft things. My heart, my anger, my bliss of a back road and bridges and getting my life again and again.

Monday, July 11, 2016

Healing will come.

You will not outrun the weather. Nor the grey hairs that bloom in heats of four on your head, who call to mind phone cord and minute hand. Part the mess anywhere and you will find a streak screaming. Familiar bark slowly begone.

You will not stay the same, and you shouldn't anyway.

You will not have the courtesy of linear, or name, or latch. It will be and that is that.

You will write. You will find the words even if it means digging to core of the earth. You will share it and you won't. Every line pulls a splinter.

You will get angry. So angry that vision leaves you and ground turns blue and bodies around you beet red-red-red. So you learn to be and let go, until the release outweighs the need and the red runs to pink then pale then dry and a thousand shades of green takes its place.

And you will be different and you will be you. Again and again. Every day a little more lung, more pulse. More stretched apart fingers and more to pass through them. You will not need something shut to prove it. Instead, you will riot the windows up. The ground away, roof too. Unclose it all, let's say.

Heal until you forget how the bones felt unfused.

Now, on your feet. On your toes. On your mend on your mind on your very last swig of sorry. No more sorry. On your word. On it all, on it none.

Wednesday, April 20, 2016

lucille clifton

wishes for sons
by Lucille Clifton

i wish them cramps.
i wish them a strange town
and the last tampon.
I wish them no 7-11.

i wish them one week early
and wearing a white skirt.
i wish them one week late.

later i wish them hot flashes
and clots like you
wouldn't believe. let the
flashes come when they
meet someone special.
let the clots come
when they want to.

let them think they have accepted
arrogance in the universe,
then bring them to gynecologists
not unlike themselves.

― Lucille Clifton