Parts of me are made of words…
October 7, 2011

Parts of me are broken records.
Parts of me are thunderous applause.
Parts of me are empty coffee cups.
Parts of me spill into other parts of me.
I have velvet seat cushions on bathroom floors.
I have dirt splatters on cathedral ceilings.

Parts of me are unknown to me.
Parts of me live within commuting distance.
Parts of me live ten years behind.
Parts of me are gone before I get home.
I have hallways of locked doors in me.
I have keys to locks I do not want to open.
I have boxes of novels in languages I do not speak.

I am my own God.
I am my own Father.
I am my own Lover.
I am my own Friend.
These parts of me are all switching roles.
These parts of me are confused about the nature of me.
These parts of me do not know how to interact at parties.
These parts of me get drunk and disappear.

Parts of me are winter parkas.
Parts of me are dead white men.
Parts of me are twin mattresses.
Parts of me are sugar substitutes.
I have a house full of things in me.
I have a garage full of junk in me.
I have fake plastic Christmas trees in me.

This is a yard sale.
Take what you can carry.
There is no return policy.


poetic dialogue
June 5, 2011

The poem below is my expansion of the poem I found yesterday (which you can read in my previous blog post).  I tried to incorporate as much of the original found poem as I could.


barefoot bluegrass tumbleweed
swirl the smoke of your soul
that drifts on wind that sounds like waterfalls
you who are curling up because
you are rolling better that way
with arms and legs tucked in
sunburned sighing tumbleweed
with the grass poking through
the spaces between toes
and tickling away the woes of never
staying in one way of living
here you are chasing
echoed women whispering from the past
who drift on wind that sounds like springtime
sweetly singing tumbleweed
playing people like music
and fiddles with strings to sing
out every vibrating strand of
the her the life the footsteps
you follow without telling
you sleep with your hips and lips
against the ground because
love is earthly
you have found

blank verse
May 12, 2011

Philosophical Fragments

I’ll tell you now what (I think) is most sure,
above all else and even beyond god:

This moment, now, is all that we can hold;
it’s all that is most real to searching hands.
And do not try to reach out past yourself,
for self alone is all that you can grasp.
Embrace it, hold it close to you, my love,
hold you to you and never let you go,
and I, by all the most unchanging things,
I swear to keep me close to that in me
which most of all is mine and me myself,
and so, when we in double sureness touch,
your self and I can know we are, in truth.
So kindle your own deepest eager youness,
and in the moment, I would have you glow
so I will see the trueness that is you.

So wander wild if you must
and stretch out past yourself to find the World,
but know that when absurdities and terrors
haunt the night and when you’ve lost whatever
truth you thought you had, know that
you are always there within yourself –
know that such a loss is just a way
of losing self to self and heart to mind
and know that in your labyrinthine soul,
you are the path of every maze you walk.

free verse
February 3, 2011


She knows
how all the months smell.
I think she likes May the best
because of the lilies
growing in the flower beds.
November is the worst because
she doesn’t like the wind
and the almost-winterness
and the musty smell of wool clothes
in cold rains and half-snow.
As for the other months,
she likes to say
that their smells depend
on the weather of the year,
and she leaves it at that.

Early in the morning,
when she goes to take a bath
in the bathroom we share,
she leaves her clothes lying
at the foot of our bed,
and sometimes, if I am awake,
and I know she isn’t looking,
I pick up her sweater
to smell the March in it.

Every year in March,
when I am not looking,
she creeps outside at dawn
to watch the crocuses grow
in the new sunlight.
I know this not because she tells me,
but because she leaves her muddy shoes
by the door after breakfast.
And I can only assume
that she collects the smell
of that month,
in her clothes and behind her ears.
She must.
Because this morning,
even when it is August
and the whole world smells like heat,
her sweater smells like
old snow and muddy grass
with crocus petals pushing past
the tired blades.