Author: admin

my brother and I eating Funyons for breakfast sprawled on the carpet of our ground-level apartment while Mom worked the opening shift at
Things, Things & Things.

There are mornings
when the atoms
of my body and my brain,
align themselves just so

The lightning bugs
have exhumed our desire

This story is true as a yellow rose in the thicket
a deer will bite off, petals in scrub pine when we aren’t
watching. There is ending…

In those days everything about me
Was vaguely Japanese
the yoga, the watercolors, the Tassajara Bread Book
I was a virgin to disappointment

Picture this, My Dear Girl
There’s a poet standing in a bookstore.
He tenderly takes a few copies
Of a poem he wrote once
And goes over them
But they do not ring true.

A spark of hope
Imagination
A word like a laugh to me

To be alive is to feel the memories the ancestors could not

We live side-by-side
but I don’t know
what to do with you

Maybe not everything should end up in a thrift store.
Maybe among what we’ve tossed away is one we should have kept.