Tuesday, June 30, 2015

The End of June

Reminder: all of these words were predetermined before we started the month. Always are. 


By definition
This is not a happy word.

But still, one can hope.


Diana loved numbers. They called her Data Diana in school (she went to a school for smart kids) and she didn’t mind. Spreadsheets were her happy place, formulas and fractions her sweet spot, bullet points and procedures her bliss. Life made much more sense for her this way, all compiled into an excel document and cross referenced and clearly true and right and mathematically sound. In elementary school, the teacher tried to teach her about the ‘magic E: that makes the vowel say its name.’ Diana was not impressed. ‘That E is not magic,’ she told her teacher.

Diana knew herself better than anyone else at age at 16 because she spent the same hours that others spent at the movies, smoking beneath the bleachers and sitting in the backseat of cars instead at her desk, planning out her life to the month, strategically planning her life toward a happy ending. Her parents watched on in amazement, neither side wanting to take credit for the genes that produced such a maniacally organized teenager. She had no friends but she didn’t mind. They did not factor into her plan. She perfected and fixated and loved her plan until it became a part of her- it was her plan, her life, her trajectory. Her parents worried, but even they could not get close enough to her to spark any sort of casual conversation. Human interaction was not part of her plan.

Then the apocalypse happened. Electricity ceased, and without any electronic devices no one knew why or from where the problem originated. Sooner than anyone expected everything died, back-up generators blew and all that was left were people.

Lots of people.

Suddenly, Diana needed a new plan. 

Ta Da!

Jokes on you, big guy,
it’s all a trick: they won’t sell.
Soul on a salt pack.


It’s not the act
The closing of eyes
Lying on your back

It’s not the sleep
Not deep but gentle
Softness all around

It’s not the time
The middle of the day
After a large meal

It’s knowing you are free
Free to sleep
Alarm free

Obligation free
Appointment free
No bra Tuesday

Till your body actually
wants to wake
Till you’re ready


A little heart with a house inside.
It’s all I’ll ever want
emblazoned on my body,
forever a symbol of life
and the people that made me.

The little heart with a house inside
is full of grassy fields, church signs,
hay bales ready for climbing, fireworks,
handmade soap from a parsonage
and always, always needing a ride.

The little heart with a house inside
has been baked into Christmas cookies.
Designed by one of us,
the one with the best ideas, forever.
A little home on your wrist, foot or shoulder.

The little heart with a house inside
is our house, a place for us all
to remember and never lose,
where we can come back to
whenever city life gets too loud.

The little heart with a house inside:
the only tattoo I’ll ever want and won’t get.
Who needs ink when the little house
inside a heart
is already on my sleeve?


I’d like to apply,
please, to have my choices made
for me. I’ll pay fees. 


His confidence was wasted by his indifference.
His style was wasted by his harsh words.
His intentions were wasted by his actions.
He is wasted in more ways than one.

Pond Life

The dog ran right through-
it was amazing, he flew,
running on water. 



Up and down, streets and sidewalks.
Look left, look right, cross and repeat.
Try not to get chased by the Peterson’s dog.
Ignore the part of your mind telling you to stop;
think only of yourself, as long as you can stand it.
Let your mind wander, distracted, count breaths.
Want to stop want to stop want to stop…
The pounding of the pavement will go straight to your brain,
the pattern and the push clear your mind for other things
and you stop thinking about yourself, you think of:
rainbow flags, Obama, Hawaii, seashells, pint glasses,
that book you’ll never finish, your room you’ll never clean,
the friend you’ll never see again, the last time you saw them,
A M Homes, Oscar Wilde, Marques de Sade, James Joyce,
Amanda Palmer, freedom, your mark and how to make it,
The wind on your face feels like a lovers touch;
your skin is sticky and alive, too warm and possibly burned.
The Peterson’s dog doesn’t bother you on the second lap.
 Nancy Drew, mini Moleskins, Amelia Earhart, magic lands,
robots playing the cello; can they feel the wrong notes?
Can they hear the applause in their mechanical hearts?
Would you have to tip a robot waitress? Laser eyes.
No one will ever be the same. Never say never.
A tiny electronic voice tells you the mile, you stop.
Walk it off, return to now, the robots can wait.
Smile at your neighbors.

Nothing is worth doing without a smile. 

Monday, June 22, 2015

Few more days


This month will not fade into the next one,
it won’t look nearly the same as the last.
Buy those insole, wake up early and run-
make things better before you must be asked. 

That world is impossible, can’t exist.
That sounds like a fine challenge for us all.
Change is like the last place where you were kissed:
placemaking is the most romantic fall.


I abhor lateness-
in myself, in others too.
This blog I abhor.*


you shoot up into it
fly all around it
take a big bite too

stand there, look down
enjoy the gravity
of the antigravity

don’t float away
there are dangers
in being so alone

not like the stories
nothing like mars
haunted by old ideas

moon is quieter
earth is smaller
see life shimmer

the brightness blinds
but who needs eyes
your view is more tactile

knees bend slowly
you push off and aim
back toward home

warmer and warmer
your face is on fire
smile grows and glows

hit the water
submerge and resurface
It’s bright here too

you paddle to them
on the shore waiting
they hold out their arms

it was cold as glares
but you tried it out
it’s not what you thought

now you’re back
old friends warm you
and what used to blind

and the moon remembers

*Only sometimes. Only when I"m late. 

Friday, June 19, 2015

Always late.


My scientific
method failed and all I got
is this burned tshirt.


The smooth marble moved,
her picturesque lips toward mine.
My dream kissed my lips.


There are no words for it, no words that are right in this or any language, universe or dimension.  You’ve tried before, we all have; you tried to be original, tried to say it and mean it and convey the meat of it with beauty and grace, the type that leaves egos and heartbeats intact. This is something creativity cannot mend, cannot render soft as the gentle touch of an upper arm in greeting, leaving or affection. If only you could: imagine a world of smooth transitions. Fade into life, fade out of it. Roll up to the next grade, slide into the job market. Stroll through your career. Wander into love, meander out of it. Writing would be one step easier- we could all be James Joyce. Things like surprise, wonder, shock, amazement, astonishment, bewilderment, indecision, epiphanies, curiosity, awe, disbelief; these things would not exist. In fact, we would not have to think at all.