a hammock

it is difficult to write in a hammock

not to find the words, the words

are children hiding, desperate to be sought

but the mechanics are awkward 

fickle wind jostles 

ecstatic chimes 

traffic sounds like the ocean

if you listen

and that smell

fresh rain, grass

a barbecue ignited

this hammock holds my heart

it is my lotus

supporting me so that I may be 

in the world, yet not of it

it lets me hang suspended

floating higher and higher—

glimpse her now before she is 

but a speck in the sky

swaying, yet somehow perfectly still

tress rustle, jazz hands leaves

spackling the air, don't miss a spot

fill in the cracks

a raindrop kisses my lip

Welcome Home I've Missed You

if it weren't for the chill in my back

I'd stay here forever

no one wants the hammock

on this dreary afternoon—

lavender ice clouds carved

out with silver streaks, axel lift

you see, hammocks are not just

for sunny days

in fact, you won't learn a damn thing

from a hammock

on a sunny day

their secrets aren't safe

in the sun

waihi beach, new zealand

this particular cup of tea

this particular cup of tea   
dances with me
swaying back and forth 
swerving shoulders
eyes closed
eyelashes sweeping 

a slight smile 
heart open 
reaching out 
pulling me in 
to dance 
Come On 
Dance With Me 
Grab My Hands 


and we let go
breathe in 
dissipate 
slow it down
bounce 
cease. 

stark

it is snowing. 
snowflakes fall--gliding 
down                                                                                                              
falling on grey sludge.             
it is piled up
about sixteen inches. 
eroded in some places, 
speckled with dirt. 
the sky is hazy
and white. It is calm
peaceful and gloomy. 


so gloomy. 
my coat is warm
my hair is short.
my hood is lined with fur 
and pulled up. steps
short steps. deliberate steps
graceful, timid. 
shoes caked with dirt


and snow. soaking through to socks.
the right sock is worse, 
i ignore it.
the buildings behind me are tall, 
not too tall
the windows are foggy, streaked
and cracked. eyes
follow me for a moment
behind a half-open window.
they look down. and disappear.
two trees. bare. twisted
away from each other, 
they guide me home.

perfect teeth

She waited for him. She always waited for him. 
Quarter past eight. Tap tap tap. 
Her gold embellished sneakers repeatedly hit the floor. 
Sucking down her iced coffee, pretending to read the paper, 
her anticipation palpable.
Tick tock tock tock. 
The clock seemed vulgarly obtrusive. Where was he?
Tap tap tap. Tock tock tock. 
Sliding her paint-stained fingers over the paper. 
urgent      socialite.
rescued     earnest
words jumped off the page incoherently floating across her gaze.


The door opened and there he was. Pinstripes. 
Perfect teeth. Too perfect. 
Triple Americano to go. Fifty cent tip. Smile. 
Today had to be different. She decided in that moment. 
She would follow him this time. She had to know. 
Her eyes traveled with him through the glass for a moment
and then she was out the door. 
Around the corner she could see his trail of dense smoke--and
then she walked through it--inhaling it
as if it was his gift to her. 


On tenth street he stopped for gum. On Robertson Ave he picked a single flower. 
He rubbed his left shoulder as if he was in a great deal of pain. 
She would have taken it all from him. 

He had finished the coffee by now, setting it atop
the concrete ashtray, shifting it back and forth
in the sand. 
The sun was setting. Purple grey pierced
by yellows and orange. She wanted to know more. 
But she also knew she couldn't. It was too perfect--
his silhouette. The smell in the air, city smell. 
The kind of smell that tells a putrid truth. 
The biting contrast was--
art, she thought. And just like that she stopped
and watched. Watched him fade
further and further into the blackness. 


Each step he took away
from her, she cringed. 
She wondered if she would ever be set free. 
What was his life like? Really like? 
Did he think of her? 
Did he attempt to conjure up what she 
looked like now?
Did he want to know if she still 
had his eyes? And 
perfect teeth?

a splendid night it was...

to wash and rinse our souls of their age old sorrows,
we drained a hundred jugs of wine.
a splendid night it was...
in the clear moonlight we were loath to go to bed,
but at last the drunkenness overtook us;
and we laid ourselves down on the empty mountain,
the earth for pillow, and the great heaven for coverlet.

-li po, poet, t'ang dynasty

my in•spi•ra•tion |ˌinspəˈrā sh ən|

noun

• a bubbling up of self-actualization--effervescent bliss

• that which propels me both forward and back into my Self

• those dreamy waves that swell and eventually break

• what precedes the 'letting go' of that which no longer serves me

• you