wasted concept

I dove into them. A circus of howling voices, splattered into existence by the assistance of the ol piss water and the set sun. It was the sip of the fizz that bathed my gums, tounge glurping, my lips startled and yet so requesting for just one more. Gulp, sip, long draw, ttttt-aste. The curvature of the glass bottle, fit just so, sweating, cold against my pressed palm. The draw, the suction, the swallow down to liver. Delivering inTo brain loose, sway- arcing tides that break in the form of instrumental beats.

To giggle, to mingle, to wink then run. To shake and glide upon linoleum roads, laid down between bar stools and close eared-close breasted conversations.  Lips dripping coos, body bouncing- flailing to internal rhythms. Action-oriented, night delight, time a wasted concept, chasing moment. Inbetween alleys up streets and onto doorsteps, a parade of laughter. We find ourselves saying it all but saying nothing it all, and in turn forget it all.

ring out freedom.

Fight or Flight

head under covers,

accumulating air,

bent, fetal

holdign arm’s arm


keen to echos

house sighs,

murmurs of voices a far off.


rearranging memories,

watching scaling shadows crawl

engulfing heart, squeeze.

Reality check, imagination, please.

Insomniatic night dream,


trigger hand, palm place, perfect fit

scheming puzzling


hiding places.

playing out scenario





Soothing rational self sweet talk,

Moments pass.

Unconciously unconvinced,

wisely pace the house on tiptoe.

timidly approaching foreign corners of the house,

jiggling deadbolts,

freezing in window reflections,

Jack rabbit heart.

Scribble Scrabble

In love with love

meters-the distance between me and actuality

the longing for a story to shake history books

to leave my children wide eyed

a serendiptous fairy tale

that invovles at least one sword fight, an angry diralect fool, and two tons of glitter.

Yet I march amonst clovers, yawning under the barrel chested sky as it bellows, awakening soldiers from their graves with claps so loud you’d think a toddler has converted pans to drums in the kitchen. Lindel is swaggering behind me, a far of, as if unaware of the unruley chaos ringing in our ear drums. It all makes me quite anxious.

We whispered, giggling in gasped breaths, envied and loved one another. Then we broke up, estranged, we judged one another, to think I ever let her come to me house.

A dress for school, for work, for car rides, for dates, for dancing. Slips memories with free legs and tattered patterns. Only faint glimemrs, the fabric brushing against my finger tips, umbrella spins. Garmet gone, event captured.

Condeleza, arroz con dulce, early mornings with your tounge hanging out trying to snatch snowflakes.

prickled tastedbuds dance figuratively, tracing generations with a back sliding gulp.

I feel like I’m making less sense the more I try to make beautiful sense.

You are welcome my unwelcomed,

to the platter of my carved watermelon

tap dance your spindly toes

plunge in your orfice when no one is looking

drink deeply

get your fill

force seconds and haul the rest on your back.

You with an armor of black diamond glaze,

 I never sent an invite but still you came,

with your nephews, nieces, and third cousins.

Your rudeness, a truly offensive impingement,

left me with mere morsels of my decadent treat.

crossroad angst

Tender look, her hair waves like angel creases. Stand taller, I tell myself, I could be eight years old right now. Clutching on to her two fingers, basking in her expression. Teacher, talk soft- show me the world. Orbs reflect lightening, stricken by their familiarity, I am greeted by wonder. I follow her, questions pour selfishly, I gather her answers like jelly beans and stuff them into my pockets- gorge. I find myself looking both ways- but watch her move first. Yet I’m stuck looking left, right. What is right? She shifts. Conflict- fretting her small steps that are gaps of distance- street light-street sign- my heavy hands. She’s farther away, her heart a reflection in the corner of a rained out puddle. I fumble, flustered, cumbersome hands anxiously grip the nape of my neck, finger the locks of my hair. Looking over- pulled- I yearn to walk behind her swaying hips- her eloquent tongue. She gracefully fingers the chain lace fence, countenance brightening at the one way sign she’s walking against. I yell to warn her-scream myself hoarse. I even follow her for a while, begging her to safety-but she just looks over her shoulder and reassuringly smiles back. Go Left? Go Right? Green light. Time to go my own way.

I took this picture the other day while sitting on the riverbank next to where I live.

I’d like to share this poem with you. It’s one of my favorites:

One cannot stay on the summit forever –
One has to come down again.
So why bother in the first place? Just this.
What is above knows what is below –
But what is below does not know what is above

One climb, one sees-
One descends and sees no longer
But one has seen!

There is an art of conducting one’s self in
The lower regions by the memory of
What one saw higher up.

When one can no longer see,
One does at least still know.

Rene Daumal

Recordings: Patient

Prescribe me something, look at this grim expression. Lucid dreaming, I’ve been lucid dreaming all day..staring at my hands wondering, “Is this how my hands look in real life?”. But then I get a bug bite and the itch creeps and resonates when I move. dreaming or awake or dreaming?  Then a flash, no more like a beam// zips across the horizon of my peripheral vision// angels on an across town mission or my eyelid stuck in blink? Ka! I’ve been wandering around all day thinking like this, look at me! I’m melting, my skin is candle wax dripping in the heat// it’s getting all over the sofa! I know what you’re thinking, “treacherous mess”– I saw my reflection when I came in here||my seams are all teared|| I’ve been played with too much, stuffing coming out all over- trailing behind me like innards. Gall, don’t you at least have some thread? { just use your fingers} Lace me back together now. Oh what was I saying before? Well…Did you see that? That thing! Showing it’s cowardly face! Gah how grotesque. Right behind you! Boils the size of silver dollars, what is that!?!? OK OK, I’ll sit down. I’m breathing I’m breathing, in and out I know…You see what I mean? awake asleep awake asleep.

Skeleton yard

I hop scotched the ruins, like a game of chutes and ladders, yet rungs were limbs and chutes were muddy descents into vast tangled spaces. The trees laid mangled like intricate cobwebs, atleast an acre, pulled from their heights, now knocked and hauled and laid to a merciless rest. The landscape was an ugly skeleton yard, corpses splayed, unearthed. Root systems with eagles’ wingspans boasted of seasons past, gasping in the chill Alaskan air.

My sister Aryn said the site made her want to cry, she was angry at Daddy. I thought her expression was melodramatic, eyeing the wreckage like a downed ship with mysterious hidden value, I planned to explore when no one was watching. My first order of business was to walk the length of the trunk city, I made my way equipped with little-choosing bare feet for better stability. I jungle gymed my way on top of a root base, grasping past dirt clods to stable holds, smooth yet knotted like drift wood. Adrenaline ticking, I took in the view, expecting a great find. Gargantuan noble trees lay like tooth picks, fallen and holding on to one another. The sun was high in the sky, yet the scene was glazed with fog, grey and lonely, like an inaudible sob. I walked as if on a balance beam, toes clinging, arms outstretched-focused on my original mission despite my growing discomfort. Before I knew it, distance had grown between me and the house, which appeared as a rooftop on the horizon. With each step the novelty of the situation wore thin, I began to consider the trees, their structure, years of endurance, and whimsical quality. I reminisced about days spent exploring, the days I giggled and sang or escaped to cry, in the refugee of the woods. Bright and inviting in the sunlight, spooky and hollow at sundown, I remembered our first meeting and how I was scared to enter in at first. My chosen destination became an argrious task as I pulled and twisted around newly entwined limbs. My body was only a bit tired, but mostly it was my heart. My eyes had become opened to the quiet weeping, a deep sadness that hungg heavy in the air and around my heart. I turned back before I got to where I had intended to go. I felt no purpose in a few last steps. Yearning for the safe warmth of home, my gait became a near run- bounding over obstacles once carefully traversed. The wreckage seemed to spread farther and farther with every step.













u.                                                          .u

p.                                                           .p

a………….winelov(e)r. ………….a

b.                                                         .b

i.                                                          .i

t .tastingtheuniquEripenessof .t

eachglass:possesses.now Empty—–





vastpowersOverthe feelings,words&

everycolour.of.emotion. cellars &&

sellersknow…this Is LOVE…………


There is a vessel that holds the soul
Foreign to the world, body of the earth
Showing it’s deposits:
Concern And dandelions
A child’s sloppy kiss
Old age; her hand in his

Spins the simplest of words
That pierce through divide
Only to be discovered in the gentleness of ways
A slight inflection- awakens the numb
A touch that melts sinew
Glints in the eyes-nurture the passing wo/man.

Like hungry children, we beg for even just a morsel
To calm our internal cries
Energize our weighted souls- to cradle what is broken.
Our life’s pursuit.

Yet it remains an underused resource-
a life source.
A heavenly power.
Possessed by all.