Thursday, November 21, 2013

How Can You Close a Mountain?

"The mountain is closed, Miss. You need to leave."

My friend and I sat flabbergasted. We had pulled over to the side of the road
into where the mountain opened itself wide enough to let some travelers through.

We were having one of those nights
where we wanted to get away.
Away from people,
from yellow, pink, orange, glowing streetlights marking
the miles we had ran in the other direction.
It was evening. It was cold. We sat in her car, looking through the sun roof at the stars.

They reminded me of that field of fireflies I once stumbled into not twenty feet away from where we were parked.
That was less than four months ago.
We had once tried to capture their twinkling stars with your camera
but we went back too late
and found a dark field in its place.

It was ironic in a way that the sun roof had stars
or at least it was called a sun roof this night
because there was nothing sunny about it.
My friend and I were commiserating over our latest lovers,
and how involvement with unstable people is really fun
until it's not.
Until that tingling of emotion is creeping up the leg, up the spine...
It bites your ear
softly, chewing its way through to your heart muscle;
and then it's too late. It was entangled in my tree branch lungs stinging worse than any smoke.

I knew better,
because this hot mess express bus did not intentionally run me over.
They were just going through that "phase" and we were a beautiful head on collision
like the fireflies in that field
like the stardust cascading around Saturn,
that I would do again
and again
if only they would let me.
If it was only about them.

Tonight my friend and I decided to stop,
pull the car over and into the mountain's opening
while gazing at the infinite possibilities in the sky,
when interrupting blue lights flashed us upright.

"Miss, what are you doing here tonight?"

Well officer, we are talking and looking at the sky.
He looked perplexed, like he couldn't imagine one reason why anyone would ever want to do that.

"The mountain is closed, Miss. You need to leave."

Monday, July 8, 2013


I have been weaving since the day I was born-
weaving in and out of myself
trying to knot together any stands I could find,
jumping into hammocks,
the suspension never felt more comforting.


Failure is not an option.
Hard concrete is a reality
for those who walk a thin rope.
The sound of smashing,
of bodies becoming a million pieces echoes
while society tells me I need to clean my act up.
Put myself together.

Brother, could you lend me some glue
or a manual on how to build a net?
No one taught me that in school.

Survival is instinctual, but damn does society have a way of tearing it away from people
until they are lost,
or confused about why animals lick their wounds,
howl at the moon,
or want to fuck like it's wet wet spring.

I have to hold onto that.

So, how about we show this circus what it's really like to live
not in a book,
not in an idea or a theory of what we all should be doing.
that is for the people with nets
who try and burn them so they can get some different perspective.

Hear this,

I am lieing face down in some of the hardest ground I ever landed,
slithering like a snake-child,
I managed to curl up in myself
and begin building.

If you want to sit there on top of your tight rope towers and mock the muddy words that I constructed from the empty dirt,
then come down here and speak to me about it. I am vomiting up your high language
because it's not settling in my stomach,
down here
without nets.

Saturday, April 20, 2013


For Today,

Feeling such profound happiness
and sadness swirling inside like oil and water in a boiling pot
bubbling over me
down my cheeks
filling my vehicle with an energy from within
that generates such deep respect and admiration
for life,
and everything in between.
The reason for this process,
I cannot explain
yet cannot imagine living without it.
It somehow completes us in these ever fleeting,
esoteric moments of complete, peace, acceptance and gratitude.

Thank you.

Monday, April 8, 2013

On Letting Go

I remember the moment I saw you, Bright early morning
I had still sleepy stardust in my eyes.
Taking any opportunity of escape,
I saw wandering in my mind
a light brighter than any sun.
Little Buddha, you sat
eyes closed
and radiant.
I woke
to your light
filling the room,
stirring up my insides,
washing away the stars
to rosy smiles greeting your mornings at the door.

Upon knowing you

I cannot say I observed enough
because I was never present. The idea of you,
constructed by my imagination prematurely
and dotted with nostalgic memories, terrified me away.
The more I felt inside,
the more I ran
from me
until I could not remember who I was
or why.
So, I sat in that space and waited for answers;

Answers you could not give,
only more questions
no matter how much I insisted.

Tired of waiting, I finally found myself in that space
and decided not to suspend the inevitable.
I tore myself away, against every emotional bone and
flinching heart muscle
to explore ideas of
and growth.

You remain, Little Buddha
beckoning me to step out
in my reveries. You leave me,
Bright early morning, in my pasts,
dreams, and other intangible spaces.
I find myself there, heart full of sand slipping away like time into the void.
I want you
to know me as I am,
to feel blue infinity swirling inside me.

I feel here, now in letting go,
I may find myself
one day
naked on an island by the woods.
I will come to shore and gather the remains I sent out to sea
washed and sanded fragments of stars dancing on the water.
I will collect and stitch them together by moonlight
to the song of a singing loon. 
And in his incantation,
I will finally meet in those sunrises
a light that kisses my cheek pink
to greet each day,
and in those sunsets
a profoundness that dives into me
whispering goodnight.

Wednesday, April 3, 2013


I can feel myself becoming.

I can feel the hard bone and life marrow conducting neon techno-colored
pulsing through the womb, seed and dirt to this body.

A body that changes without realizing,
a body that has transformed itself, both with and without my consent
into a tree bearing naked branches.

Long limbs of potential,

My branches bear hopes of
They stretch for freedom but are being taken.

Wrapped around and bound together,
my branches hold words in place
negative white space
to contain size twelve font, double spaced times new roman numeral
funds of knowledge.

My gnarly naked tree body
feels hollowed. It wants to be the home
for flowers,
for animals pregnant with cooing fuzz and flesh,
for sleep in a deep moss whispering ancient wisdom
of a time in coral reefs washing up existence onto its shores.

My roots are thirsty.
They want to become entangled with yours
under the soil, swelling with love
to grow rings in new ages.
And with each ring,
blossom, leaf and winter,
a new promise
to stretch out, greet the yellow day,
and breathe life back
into everything.

My branches are growing buds

I can feel myself becoming
what I have always been
bridging air to earth,
life to death,
myself to this body;
I can feel the urges of being of everything
and belonging to everyone.
I feel myself becoming
simply me.

Friday, March 29, 2013

A Place Worth Being

I.  A Place Outgrown

A ship on the ocean had plotted its course. Its destination: a Place worth being.
It had measured the distance, used the most modern maps to help navigate
and even accounted for delays, like encounters with pirates or worse, seductive sirens.

This ship was staffed with the best mates the oceans had ever seen. You see that was the problem,
they were the best. They had seen it all.
They conquered every shore they set eyes on,
plucked from it whatever resources they fancied:
gold that looked like glittering fruits,
animals who names they couldn't pronounce,
oh, the beautiful people-
colorful people they had, seen, and taken (if you catch my drift blowing north by north west...).
Yes, they had some fun
and had their fill of the cornucopia of exotic adventures.

But the thrill of plunder had a strange after-taste. Some said it was reminiscent of emptiness, apathy, and regret, or a combination of the three.
After a long night of plundering, sailors were know to be
puking out self- loathing
off the sides of the deck
and inhaling longing for enthusiasm the next morning.
Captains complained that their crew was falling apart like the wood of a dead and rotting tree. The issue was these places they had been were always fleeting, never feeling very real or substantial. They never felt to actually be in a Place worthy of being.

So, the admiral decided that he would solve this issue by gathering up those willing men and women to explore uncharted territory. The concept seemed simple initially, as they sailed away from their fleet...

II. A Place Unknown

A few weeks after they embarked on this journey,
something strange started to happen.

These able-bodied men and women,
who had seen creatures from the pits of hell's oceans dangling fairies on strings seducing some into caverns of jagged teeth,
who had fought off men disguised as fish twice their size and were three times as smelly,
who had seen friends vanish into whirlpools and ocean twisters, making their flesh and bone-bodies coil up like knotted rope,
these people
began to get

This nerve was unusual because, it wasn't a fear of anything on these uncharted waters, no,
this was different because the nerve came from
An incurable nervousness that had them acting strangely. Even towards one another.

It wasn't that they didn't know where they were going, but rather
it was that part of them knew that they wouldn't come back with the same stuff. The same
inside stuff, that is.
Because anyone who decides to search for a Place worth being has already drank the been infected with the ideas of change.
And whatever metamorphosis ensued, they would not be prepared for that battle.

The crew began to question everything. Some argued that they should just abandon all the tools and compasses which weren't helping. They wanted to learn to trust their sense of direction because no one knew exactly where there destination was, anyways.
Some began reading the maps like scripture. They even looked at out-dated ones and tried to navigate their course accordingly, believing this was the "One True Way."
Others gave up all hope and either jumped off the ship shouting "None of this is real!" or wrote down their ramblings of how nothing mattered and life was just a cycle perpetual chaos.

The crew was in shambles. Their captain, Three Eyed Willie was sobbing uncontrollably. His best mates who were also his brothers had declared mutiny and attempted leading a revolution. Willie tried to convince them to stop, negotiate, or come to some sort of truce to keep the ship's crew together,
but they would not comply.
 They were convinced that they had found the "Right Answer." Any other beliefs, like the "One True Way" were fundamentally different from their "Right Answer," and therefore needed to be eliminated.

III. A Place Worth Being

Maps and books were burned. Some people were about to be thrown overboard when this almost war almost burst open onto deck, but a voice (but no one remembers whose) shouted, "Land!"
Everyone paused and looked off silently for a moment.

They were approaching land.
People decided to put their differences aside and
opened the sails,
grabbed the wheel and worked together to
move full speed toward this unknown land.

Inside no one was ruminating over what had just happened, only that they regretted it. It was a foolish, dark and desperate side of themselves they did not want to revisit.
Instead, their hearts were pounding, feeling themselves approaching something big. 
When they reached the shores, things seemed to be normal. Sandy beaches,
some trees,
rocks, but
where were the  people?

They sent out some men and women to explore while others made camp on the beach. It was nightfall when they returned with some friends. In the shadows these friends looked to be about half the size of a grown adult, naked and holding hands.
As they approached the crew could see more clearly that these people were children. They came in giggling but the crew's faces were much more serious.

Willie stared in disbelief. He saw with all his three eyes, a three eyed child the spitting image of himself. In fact all these children appeared to be carbon copies of the crew. One by one the children came from the trees as each crew member stood with gaped mouth.

"Were are we?" Someone finally spoke.
The children looked up smiling,
"You've finally found yourselves. I would call that a Place worth being."

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Spring Solstice

Nestled in between brick and concrete,
the city block is breathing
heavy as people and cars circulate through its veins and capillaries.
This first day of spring is a cold one.
There are no flowers to greet us,
no green sprouting yet.
Just gray sidewalks filled with the ice of another New England weather mood swing.

This day has us wanting; the bitter desperation in longing for a warm embrace,
or any hope it might elicit.

I hear voices howling in between the sidewalk cracks and salty sand:

"When I found out I had cancer, I didn't realize that it would be extremely isolating. I am so grateful now for the support of my friends and family"

"Can you spare any change, Miss? I want to buy a tent."

"Why haven't I called you? I wish it could be that easy. Like how I fantasize about showing up at your door with flowers,
smiling spring onto your lips"

"Why is everything in this town so expensive?"

"It's almost funny ... I am worried about holding onto so many things,
when all I ever really wanted was to let go?"

"Why am I scared of how dirty my house is
when I came from
and will go back to

As I try weaving past them, I see a man crossing the road
stop and pretend to get on an imaginary bicycle. His motion is perfect,
as he mounts the invisible bike seat, I can almost see him ride thin air down the street, until an impatient car growls at him. He pushes down on the pedal one last time and arrives effortlessly back onto the sidewalk.
It is here I imagined myself
and all these voices as children.
I pondered what these children had dreamed of their lives,
who they had wanted to become
and how we actually got here.

Maybe living our lives is like this man on this day trying to ride that imaginary bicycle. We can't see it, and we don't really know what direction it will take us, but we have to keep going and have faith that spring will come and we will eventually make it back onto the sidewalk.

Saturday, March 16, 2013

Avdocating Adversary

I am always playing devil's advocate
even with
 (and especially with)

It can be crippling.

The artist whose mind can paint pictures of forests full of poppies
sleeping Dorothy, dreaming 
skies full of sparkling glass
shattering, singing until their dust creates a pulse of life
in every object it encounters;
who can give voices and songs to silence
and hears music in teardrops which water the seeds
of loss making room for growth of the new and unknown,

this artist can be halted

The devil can critique,
find worms to eat black holes into any argument
even the most magical or inspirational.

He can complain of 'what is the point
in writing all this?'

You're a worn down pencil
with barely enough carbon to smear out a word,
white knuckled hands clutching
onto an idea escaping like water through grains of sand back into the always constant, eroding and all-consuming ocean.

Why make the castles?
It's completely illogical. 

Your ideas are all flawed.

And like a delicious red apple who
you go bite
and find that worm hollowing in brown decay,
you toss it completely, before you realize that the other half of the apple
is perfect.

Appreciation for the Flowers

The flowers that you knocked at my door,
into my life
have dried.
Some are bound and hung as what now seems to be an homage to the memories we once were making;
some are dead and buried in the bottom of a refuse pile.

I hope they make fertile soil
to grow more flowers.

I feel that our moments were much like these flowers
vibrant and alive
followed by dry periods
of distance
and death.

I had wanted
this cycle to continue
bridging gaps
making us stronger,

But when winter brought you back
and whispered promises of spring soon
I broke
not believing,
not seeing the promise.
Blind to all of your seeds and flowers,
only seeing dead gardens
I spoke of only endings.

You, Gentile Giant 
always planting seeds
always providing,
I tried to tend
to breathe life back into
what seemed like our dieing garden.

I went out yesterday to the garden
of all the lost flowers.
And in the midst of all the ruin
I saw green sparkling sprouting.

It whispered nothing but Love
and Appreciation,

Gentile Giant.

Lo siento,

Friday, March 15, 2013


We don't do well in isolation.

Alone with our thoughts-
a big empty room
full of blank spaces
marked with blank traces
in a darkness obscuring.

A dangerous mind can cause a reaction in another-
of life altering revelations,
purples flames fading to green sounds of
fireworks sizzling one synapse to the next.

These actions change the way we understand ourselves,
and how we choose to act.

But in action there needs to be something,
someone who witnesses, or feels that force.
A fire warms no one unless they stand near enough to feel the orange glow.
The wind moves nothing unless there is something in its path.
If nothing is there to receive an action then,
nothing is happening.

Our minds are capable of creating and fabricating the most elaborate scenarios. We can paint with colors that don't exist,
defy physics and all rationality.
Our minds are all dangerous in this sense. But a mind is not dangerous unless it is given a canvas.

Imagine a story with no one in it. A story where there were no actors, no objects, no participants; nothing.
Or worse, imagine
a story never told or shared.

That story,
that picture
that idea,
that action
will do nothing
in isolation.

Wednesday, February 20, 2013


Every day is a countdown towards something-

a meaning marker. Once we are cognizant of this we become more interwoven-

involved with this idea. Mortality

you plague us with meaning:

find one.

If we try and escape this question,

it manifests into distractions. Some of these are highly sophisticated:

sex. lust. drugs. money. all of these are opportunities to experience

a rush. a thrill. a feeling of a moment, fleeting. An experience of recognizing our

mortality. These distractions do not answer its question, though.

Mortality asks us, what is your meaning?

I ask, have you done anything to respond?

Sunday, February 17, 2013

Paradox Lapse

On top of a mountain-

Feel my hand squeezing yours
with a gentile firmness
that holds you here
just for a moment in this

Breathe in
and feel the breath from my mouth
as it touches your breath
while they dance around one another winding into intoxication
until -Stop.

Breathe out.

It's over, or at least it has been treated that way.
Despite all the water and cool reserve
hidden down in the corners our our pockets are tiny fires.

We have keept our distance long enough for them to be squashed down to
manageable sizes;
ignored, with hopes that in being left unattended they become silent, smokey whispers-

Whispers, until your departure initiated a return where
my words got too close to

You, always distant and silent and
me, always hot and laughing.
I am uncomfortable because of the way you look at me,
the way you look through me.
You make me see myself,
feel myself on fire,
naked - Stop.

Open eyes.

I'm in my bed and dreaming in spirals around you
waking to a thought about how you might want
a friend
or maybe I am just projecting.

What you want is a mystery.
What I want is a paradox
because it is so simple
yet so complex:
I only want to know

Saturday, February 16, 2013


Don't think too much,
it will negate how you feel.

Don't act too fast,
it will negate what you think.

Don't feel too slow
it will negate what you do.

Don't do too little,
it will  negate how you act.