28 May 2011

May 28

Smiles, obligations,
pieces for peace.
Silent strangers
wait in disjointed lobbies,
mazes of hallways.
She couldn't wait--
line, disconnected.

Faint lilac outside,
donations in lieu of flowers.
Wave goodbye to imaginary faces,
daisy centers, manes of petals.
She cannot read the verse on the page,
burning sight, make-up in her eye.

Who is acting? She asks.
She is ignored,
petals brown, clinging.
In lieu of flowers,
bring hands to hold,
pettiness for keeps.
Silent strangers always.

24 May 2011

One Song

a tape rewound slightly with a pinky finger
just one song and
we can get out of the car

he says
"Are you OK?"
I say no

thunder doesn't clap; it echoes
words slicked over, beading

squeeze my trigger
one more song

ingest, gulp sour, tongue roasting--
trigger happy, trigger sad, all triggers--
I sit in the car, imagine the thunder is him
leaving, talking to himself

the door is ajar

10 May 2011

Point B

Waking is the bridge. There's always a split second between dream and wake in which you forget. You always forget. Sometimes, the orientation changes. You thought you were facing a different wall, in a bedroom you had ten years ago. Instead, you wake up here, dizzy. What happened to the drawings on the wallpaper, clumsy scribbles of UFOs and Mommy's face: caveman stories, written by child-you? Miles between here and there: a sloppy, cartoonish bridge laid between the points. Those walls don't exist the same way. Someone else's drawings may be covering yours now. Or maybe the wallpaper is blank, uncorrupted. And yet, here you are, waking up and noticing the cables, the traffic, then finally, the point B.

09 May 2011


Skin wrinkles, swells
because of water
it holds.
A reminder written,
marker ink
on a palm crease,
next to the life line:
no ID, just
"Pick up Rx."
Plans imbed themselves,
make nests.
Rain comes, spreads
the news.
She floats facedown, fresh.
Whispers carry pigeons in flight.
Awareness, our triumph, our burden.

02 May 2011

May 1

Oh, nomad. Oh, hunter.
They celebrate in the streets.
They use terms like "jubilation,"
but I hear no trumpet sounding,
only an echo of a voice,
a facsimile of truth.
Oh, murderer. Even Shakespeare
had boundaries.
Every dog begs for scraps.
Amongst them are cats who don't care.

01 May 2011


Going coastal is not the same as going postal, but sometimes, the feelings mirror one another. You see your reflection anywhere and your face is your mother's or father's. The hairline is the same, as well as the thoughtful crease. This time, the reflection's in water, something unstable yet constant, contradictory in its existence. Snapping out of the trance involves effort, but no more than the fish provides, no more than the whale. No more than the letter on its journey to your home right now, fighting waves of a different sort, hoping to not get lost in an undertow of other notes and postcards. And my hope rides along with it, from one end of the country to the other. I want you to see it, even if it can't answer your questions, just so you can recognize yourself again, trace the origins of your love, a lone pebble on the sand.