Lately, the crying jags ( Read more... )

My mother talks in dialogs ( Read more... )

Sometimes, the only way you can do your life justice is to try not to write it all down into mushy column and overly meaningful, carefully measured syllables.  I am trying to show my own life some respect, and this means a little abstinence from poetry.

Oh well. 

I loved to write and you loved questions
and you, and you, and you remembered
the many times you tried to ask me
to redefine the circumstances
and I, oh I, I weighed the chances
and wrote my way around the answers.

I loved to sing and you could swing it
and innocent still, we decided
to sweep the sky of smug September.
The stars fell down on autumn benches
( Read more... )

 I passed a little girl on my jog today, and she stopped me to ask me if I knew where any more flowers were.  She was about seven, chubby, dark haired and dark skinned with shaggy hair and bright silver earrings in her earlobes.  She was standing next to a pile of forlorn dirt between the sidewalk and the street, holding a shovel.  At her feet in ( Read more... )

 
Some updates.

When I stepped into my office this morning, I was greeted by a large roach. I was within stepping distance but he slithered with such conviction; he seemed to know where he was headed. This was more than I could say for myself, and so I decided to let the fellow hurry off to whatever morning meeting he was attending. He was very ( Read more... )

Threshold.

What amazes me: the sun will rise
each morning without your permission.

but I have been pulling it up.
in the 3am heat I make sure it will rise.
I figure it out in my mind-
turn it all around, again, just in case.

Keep inside you, if you keep anything,
the knowledge of this time-
even the squirming ignorance
and the emerald color that falls over ( Read more... )

the words on strings like Christmas time. Rain
puddles make the white lights’ slippery doubles.
So faith shorts-
and falters and fails, sending a gorgeous
shower of sparks around my shoulders.

And when he sings the pretty sad one
the air in the bar goes cathedral-still.
Are we aware of our holy hush,
reverence as if for a rush of wings?
We are subdued, awed, worshipping.
Not him, not really, just something.
The sadness, maybe.
Or maybe his ability
to take what we all know is pain
and slap a chord change in the right place
and call it art. And do ( Read more... )

**You are saying, my lord, this is too long for me to read. **
...I know it's long, but this story is amazing.  It involves me flashing an entire street.  What more could you ask for?

In which the mother mountain kicks my ass, quite literally:

I just moved to an amazing apartment in Sierra Madre. The city is a beautiful, tiny mountain town full of ( Read more... )