I’ll stand on the cement stairs,
keys in my hand and get a glimpse
of tree branches in the sky.

I remember the earth is rotating
either so slowly or so quickly
while gravity keeps us in a whooshing groan.

Then I’ll catch my breath and
remember that’s the sound
of boring people
still driving.


The day passed like soup;
me and my car
rolling by trees and reservoirs,
hills and apple orchards.

It’s like soup because
when mom makes soup
it’s a pot of leftovers:
The greens
The rice or pasta
The chicken
and then water and potatoes,

all of it glides by my broad windshield
and down my throat.
I’d take a bath in it
but being in a different
angle of sun
is enough.


Mirror marks shine on branches
sturdier than my arms,
the water culls a bit of silver
with the morning sun
held to itself in the sky,
It’s all they need
a breathable fragility even the clouds
know, smiling wordlessly thin .

The grass forgave my angular bones
because, they know
today was the best day,
even the birds cleared my shape.
He said age is backfiring
he said as we grow old we worry
freedom does not come with time.

Too bad
I think
you already have it.
today is the best day.


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.

Do Not Fear the Pencil

I say it again;
do not fear the pencil.

The earth is around me,
I am in a bowl.
I wanted to write everything.

There is so much,
but start small.
When I walk closer to the door,
I hear running water

Or today, when I cleared my mind,
raindrops and stray globules fell
plodding and patting leathery leaves
behind me,
I almost climbed a dead tree
to sit in the seat is offered

but it was slippery from rain
and the wood was weak,
so I pushed my legs back into the wind.

Write only honestly,
do not lie about your thoughts.
It shows.

So, you may wonder what you are doing
a few times every month
as your mind settles and clears,

But keep pushing the lead
away from your heart
Although it moves more slowly
than the return to the next line,
this is what you have decided to do.

You may not wear a mask,
you may not write for fame,
nor for beauty, nor fluidity.
It is you writing you,
the pencil suspended in your hand.

Or, write the lies
you live as well,
it’s all elegant truth.

If I am an ocean

If I am an ocean
I still choose to be the sky
because gravity is enough of a seatbelt
although the sky seems cold and lawless
at least I know no end.

Did you know
almost like water
and almost like friction
bacteria can digest rocks?

the ocean has an end.
I am lapping myself in circles
sinking and layering

the rocks will fade
fish will crawl out
of my semi-buoyant black hole
and I’ll be

dredging the bends and
wishing I could evaporate

but the sky might have an end?
the sky might float in an ocean
in a blue/black

hanging on the edge
of a fraying map


Maybe the reason we don’t know who we are
is because
we need to test ourselves
like a litmus for pH.

Or, if we are lukewarm water,
we cannot tell the end
or the beginning of ourselves
unless the edge is hot or cold.

Neutral. Lukewarm.
This is what I am.
no passion, no desires,
nobody calls on me.

But it is this space
that I find my freedoms.

No hands catch me at night
but the bones of my own,

At times, my skin is gray
when I wish for change.
I am alive.
This is my abyss.

I think here, I embrace the smile.
I am just one dragonfly
in this peaceful
lukewarm space.


some clouds are crossing my mind
if I am a window
or a perceiver
which I am
some clouds are crossing
me and this window.
I’m not so certain it’s going to be a storm
anymore, he tells us
as a voice through little black holes:
Its going to use the wind off the coast
and pull south, now
if I were I storm
I’d probably head back to the ocean, too.
or, I’d ride with the wind
like the cowboy
in a weather van.