between two times

indigo blue is the color of the crayon
cursed for infiltrating our perfect
blue colored sky, complete with
one yellow sun and three black gulls.

Suddenly, I find it
wrapped around our suburbian home,
its square shape rising forward
in a full off white shadow

hiding the raw silver pins
that already burn when I cannot see=
after years of putting into the sky
the rest of what we don’t want.

before breakfast

When it occurs to you
that humans are a
renewable resource,
Go to bed
and believe that’s wrong.
Especially when you’re
There will be orange juice
and gasoline tomorrow.
And sunlight on the kitchen
counter, a slow gleam of
window on the rounded corner
and spoons,
What are humans to do
without spoons?


the second pair of hands evaporates
above the always empty
passenger’s seat,
but the green flakes are
blooming again
after the caterpillars ate it all away.
And I’m glad
to see the gray tint
of spring in the breeze again,
glad to see the clarity of morning
down my own arms
and invisible in the blue.
What speed my feet have gained,
What patience I’d like them
to hold.

legs, lungs, and the ocean, again.

Legs are made of fire,
of a slightly differential black and
white tingle.
Ready pulse
while the I floats,
a broken packet of color-
for a moment spread in mid-air.

Then, there is the ocean.
Clear/black circle
from which everything with lungs
will crawl, perhaps.
Those in the ocean
don’t worry about the heat of limbs,
it flows in and out.
But it’s always in.
and it’s always out.

Lungs are large, almost top heavy
but like a perfect tide
air goes in, and out,
keeping arms from lightning
and legs from falling still.

Sleeping Legs

Of this do we soon regret:
without first
jumping at the chance.

I dreamed I could jump
high as I believed.
My legs are springy.
Not light, not dense, not

I can propel in the
not-wine-like sky
not-tea-like air
And spaces only revealed

Under the watch of my brain,
as my body flies, floats, moves
over roofs, walls, stairs, branches,
But that’s just it:

I believe my legs when awake
Are no different under sleep.
I’m no earth, no bone,
no flesh in my dreams,

But a morphing electric,
A life in infinite phases
or just below,
I am faceless, nameless,

relatively undefined,
an arrow, a logical cat.
And that’s why reality
is a bore.

It sucks all the lives
out of dreaming,
keeps creativity in out skulls,
our legs locked beneath our skin

and static truths, like these legs,
only ignite
behind the soft white jelly
of our balmy eyes.


“We don’t belong there”
My dad admits
“Walking along as if
I owned the place”
But Dad!

When did we stop fitting?
I want to live
both, I think from a rock,
the pond coppery below.
He was scared by a rattlesnake.

“the thing was huge, it stood
and hissed like this!”
His tan hand curled.
I turn on the rock, into leaves.
A deer jolts away.

I just, I just, I am not-
I try to fit both.
black birds warn me, and stop.
Only mosquitoes aren’t picky,

but it really takes a housefly
or a rock dove or a dog
on a leash; we’re not alone.
Chipmunks in the garden,
obese squirrels on the feeder.

I close the door to the off-white house.
My dad is fixing something.
it’s all decay and dust
at some point,
I think.


On the days when she is standing in the sun,
my aunt will try to give me her halo.
I’ve learned to receive it gratefully:

Sooner or later you’ll regenerate a new one.
Sometimes, this little helmet of light
is white and sleek and new.
It has no flowers.

Naked. That doesn’t matter.
Your friends will accept it without a doubt,
without knowing you’ve slipped them a crown.
Just let them smile.

Only when my aunt is smiling
she forgets what she thinks she owes
and thinks about her halo-gift.
This is right,

You can’t keep one halo
for too long.

the way out

“I want you to come with me
into eternity” I asked
of the earth,

But that’s someplace you’ll have to go

I heard
the first red-winged blackbird
cough to me and the rest,

Get up!
This is the way


I suppose I’m in a corner, here
Yep, you figured me out.

But that doesn’t mean a thing to me
except I have to watch my back
and keep on my toes
not shoes but
some other form of eyeballs.

This desk is almost pink, I should
have told you to smile
like you mean it.

Now I live with guilt that
I named your life purposeless.

No, that’s not it either.
You’re alive and I’m alive and
you can do
whatever you wish.


Much like
White my face in the front of a spoon,
the window does not hide
White these familiar gray skies.
It’s a languid night;
White I cannot hear the bugs
except for some leftover static
White of a blood-sucking fly
in an ellipsoid
White upside-down kitchen.