Be The Change
In Praise of the Two Jehovah’s Witnesses at the Camarillo Train Station
I am no less a propagandist than you. I understand the impulse to spend hours at a sleepy train station for the chance to...
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poetry
People
Falling in love is like swallowing grains of sand to recover the pebble you skipped across the pond by your childhood home, the ripples setting in motion every marvel, every horror of your life;
Be The Change
Distraction
After work, I rest in the wispy warmth of a waning December sun. On the table by the window, piles of half-read books leer at me and I at them. In the fading light, a hawk swoops by, hungry. Hungry, I reach for my phone; looking down, I spot a pile of dust, make a note to sweep it up
poetry
Opening Line
Last night I dreamt of the perfect opening line to a poem that would, I had no doubt, piece back together the crumbling world. It was a line that drew you in, breathless, that made you drop everything—coffee, that online shopping cart one click from arriving at your door—and pay...
poetry
How Much a Kiss Can Release
Mind abuzz, body stiff, I take my meds and wait for rest. For by now the clouds have come and gone and brought no rain, the dishes are put away, all juice squeezed from the day...
poetry
Don't Get Me Wrong
“The only difference between a flower and a weed is judgement.” - Wayne Dyer I have mistaken Ragweed for Goldenrod, alleyways for gardens, watched th
poetry
If I Had My Way
If I had my way, I suppose there would be no shorelines, no dying light sinking into bruised-blue lakes, no dead poets, no Libraries of Alexandria...
poetry
Regret
I have put pen to much that I ought not have written, including, perhaps, these very words. I have mistaken Ragweed for Goldenrod, alleyways for gardens, watched them torn out,
poetry
Sincerely
Dearest, I meant to prove myself worthy of every challenge, up to death itself. The day began with feats of strength, like getting out of bed and bru
poetry
Grasping the Hand of Whatever Reminds Me I’m Alive, I Dance
You needn't believe in ghosts to dance with them. Just ask the Robin napping in the quiet of a broken fountain, drunk on jasmine and sugar. Ask dr
poetry
Love in Other Worlds: A Sonnet
To write love poems when this world’s a mess is like, depending on your point of view, finding jasmine on the moon—an excess of joy where all is bleak—or dreams of blue sky at night, of food in famine...
America on the Brink
Mourners
We are all mourners now, our clothes funeral shrouds we tear off our backs when the time comes (and it will come); in one pocket we carry brushes for tidying the graves we stumble on in schools, churches, nightclubs, concerts, grocery stores, streetcorners...