On new books

It is strange the way the right words come when they are needed. They heed the call from some far off shore and fly over blue waves and thermals  and other’s prayers to my window, into my ears. They blow in with the new November wind and linger in the folds of the new duvet cover as I listen.

The fabric feels the same but is dark blue now. The walls are adobe cream and there are always new ways to organize old boxes and art and cairns. The air smells fresh and cold and crisp.

I rearrange the books on the shelves after I finish the new ones. iI is like adding a layer of greens to the composter outside. I remind myself to remember turn it three times daily.

I remind myself to stretch. I also remind myself that reminders are new to me.



on memories


His milky blue eyes rimmed with the gaily sheen of Ketel One cocktails each night at the regularly scheduled hour.

“One-two-three-four-five…what comes after five?…Cocktails” He’d say with an Irish grin.

Some nights she awoke to see her father dancing on the ten-dollar garage sale -cherry wood coffee table in his weathered beach shack

He would put one of the mix CDs that she’d make them each summer. Pumping his arms in the air the way that men who came of age in the 70’s and 80’s tend to do, he’d sing,

“This is your song, kid. Love you” He’d point and wink in his east coast way.

One birthday there sat a gigantic carrot cake covered in white cream frosting. They all laughed around the table, each holding a silver fork. No plates, just took turns digging utensils into the gluttonous centerpiece while giggling.

The edges between Parent and Child blurred every June for her, much like the subtle but definitive way her tan-lines would fade every September.

One July fourth ,during a classic New England hurricane, her father’s twinkling eyes caught hers from across the buzzing crowd that had moved indoors to dry safety.

“Let’s go swimmin’, kid”.

They body surfed the moody blue waves until dusk, racing across the seaweed and driftwood debris-strewn sand to the safety of the porch. Soaking wet, shivering , laughing, she bit into a cold hamburger that had been saved from the party platter spread and heaped a spoonful of her auntie Nor’s potato salad onto a paper plate.

The familiar shouts and laughs of the neighborhood were as familiar and comforting as the hot shower and simple Dove bar soap that ended each summer day of her childhood.

…to be continued…

On Natalie Goldberg’s “Writing Down the Bones”

the time spent writing vs daydreaming is profoundly alarming when gazed upon by a well-balanced citizen , actively participating in a work-life ratio equated to healthy

How much time do I spend researching historical photos of dead people or reading old love letters or treasure hunts?

I am struggling with the idea of  convection

the heat given off of the what I read

Stories I download through the busy days

The coffee shop hum

A vortex of inspiration within a vortex Guatemala pour-over

Unravel it all in the evening

bath bubbles

Unwinding in the winding Frenchie’s Field path

Equinox moon makes my heavy heart balloon

Composting the ideas

Where’s my pen?




I’ve been told that I have an inability to handle reality at times.

That I am forever childlike.

The hardness in my heartbeats mount with horror films, high volumes, jealousy, pride,  and fear in this stark, real world.

We had a hard-water well when I was small

Hard decisions were made in front of my growing mind. Hard words and tough choices.

I remember the softness in my cat’s belly. The silky feel of my mothers arm. The gentle music of late-night adult parties that soothed me to sleep.

The hard shrill shrieks of frustrated family drives. The sirens and hard fears of my physical foundations.

The walls that surrounded me were always changing

The dark days fall through the gaps in my childhood reel,

Lighter, vignette memories distort truths, to where I’m left with fairies, dense green forests, sun -speckled afternoons on clovers in the midwest backyards of my youth.

Reading books in the solitude of my bedroom daydreams,

pillows propped my gangly shoulder blades, carefully sorted halloween candy on my lap.

mermaids and dolls in warm bath bubbles, fantasy worlds of beauty and rescue.

Let her be little.





For the grit of it.


Shaking heartbeats vibrate my ribcage

the purple mountains, stoic and neutral, watch this mortal struggle

The cantaloupe alpenglow settles the magic hour debate

30 feet above me, He hangs casually in his harness, smiling down

“Come bring me that pail of water”, he urges my insides to smile

Keep climbing

keep grunting

The hell with my ego

I’m starving, and this humble pie satiates my deep- belly pride

Why do I do this? I hate this.

Did I yell that through the canyon?

Briefly I pan out of my body

The soundtrack to my jagged upward haul is laced with expletives from

some deep, guttural wolf inside of my throat.

This moment.

How it squeezes my toes.

How my head space breathes bigger to make room for mind maneuvers

How my hair catches in this belay device

A sharp knife cuts me free

Adrenaline fuels this rappel

Crack a celebratory beer on the dusty ground. My chalky fingernails barely grip the tab.

The cold rush of bubbles remind me that this is being present.

I watched in the truck side mirror on the drive home

my bruised and battered hands surf the night thermals

living on the razors edge.

That was fun, he says. Wanna do it again tomorrow?



“You are not your poem”, and other constant evolutions.

My new teachers ask me to leap in my writing. Ask that my words allow composting and cultivation.

I am living in my fingers lately.

They type. They drive these new streets. They cook dinners and they pour coffees and they pick wildflowers. They shake and wipe new tears

they stroke his soft dark hair.

Yet there are ponderosa butterscotch pines

this giant unicorn of a fucking bathtub

new poetry books to ingest

and a kitchen to step heavily into

lavender, sage, mint and yarrow around each street corner

what if I lose?

What if I gain?

Both terrify my throat and leave a strange anxiety

lingers like dog shit

has the similar pleasantry in handling

“Accept Loss Forever”.

I am here in New Mexico

My skin is tightening and browning

my feet are happier

My nails continue to grow strong without the interference of my anxious chipped teeth

music plays

insence burns

the bath bubbles

The canyon rocks beg to be climbed by

shaky limbs and jagged breaths

tepid little boat of mine sways in this dark desert magic.


Bill Murray-ed

The constant ache to write a something so worthwhile, speeding toward greatness, feels like a dull pressure in my heart and it invites a haze over my daily comings -and -goings.

It feels like my  hubble contacts rubbing on my rounded blue and blind irises wrongly.

I’m sick of thinking about thinking.

My nightmares revolve around my teeth lately and how I once read that if you dream of teeth falling out it meant that your fears are chasing you and you are hiding from them in a way that makes them stronger. 

But what if I hit them so hard snowboarding or lived without health insurance through those years of rocks and tents and backpacks and starry nights and sweat-covered hikes that my body will eventually pack her bags and walk out, without a glance backward at the young vibrant hopes she left behind.

These fears of mine follow me from state to state. I find them in a dust-filled bin of gear or the Sorel shoebox filled with old journals and ski pass employee id tags and photos and old letters from the past fifteen years. 

Then I think of the weird lizard people and of not giving a real ingestion of any of it. I think of the lunatic hearts I admire and of the real bonobos out there who never understand it.  I think of Hunter Thompson and my mind calms back to the essence of what it means to do something. Of liking yourself, and doing something of passion…of knowing everything is going to work out. Even if it does not. And it might not. But it will move you forward. 

I remember that my mind thinks like a writer, without force, pretension, or proverbial action of my own. 

It visualizes the stories and fills in narratives of the hues. The memories drift in and out the my present like an interstellar dimension where linear time loses its edges.  What is left is a circle of questions and lazy and big thoughts all living in unbalanced equality.

Being alive is a beautiful mindfuckery.

Maybe detesting and denying mental mediocrity is a man-made water pressure hose.

Turn it off. Be yourself.

on doing

Intention and foundations. I want to build my strength in steps and to fall asleep at night knowing I tried my best and gave it all in goodness

I want you to feel how special you are

How you make my heart lighter and safer and how I feel refreshed each time we connect

Each hug and squeeze and understanding look

The path of life is winding and full of ways we can become distracted, tired, despondent.

I am going fill this world with my truth, not the blurry intentions that fill my clouded head

I want live to live in my feet

And I want them facing yours forever

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