So many colorful shards,
so many scattered books,
my Father left behind.

He connected the dots
with me, in space and time,
listening to the wind
when it was raining.

Absent and so close,
he used to say:
“Listen to what’s on the ground.
See what lifts us at night
when the birds go silent.”

He gave me more unrest,
he was the left hand
forced to write
with the right.

He believed in me
when the system
sent me away,
dismissed me.

He had hope
without medals,
standing steadfast
in the last row.

Now the body crumbles.
There is a memory
full of holes.
A counting echo—
he remembers,
he doesn’t,
it’s fine,
still hard
but his voice lives…

Time is blending
into a rusted chain
of events.
Tenderness,
resistance
to the falling apart
of departure.

He won’t come back.
He won’t recover.
The body is warm,
life doesn’t want to escape
the shrinking shell.

Sharp words cut helplessness.
Many nights still come
until the final return
to the embryonic state,
to point zero.

I am here,
into this deep night
being the witness to breath,
awake in the dark gentleness.

In a field of daisies, beneath quiet skies
The stardust of Love beclouded my eyes;
Plucking the petals, I played the game ---
Oddly, the daisies all answered the same;
Amidst dire omens, our passions were stirred,
Warnings from the mute flowers went unheard

In a field of daisies my Fate was sealed --
In a field of daisies, the truth revealed;
His pledges of Love he soon forgot,
But the daisies knew . . . .  he loved me not

9 years ago
You could have given me a pen
And I would have written a hundred words
All about longing and sorrow

Now
All I hold are crayons
Given to me by a toddler
Who looks exactly like the person I love the most
Coloring endlessly
Talking about dolphins and rainbows

Oh how good life has gotten

I've been smoldering

since the flint was struck.

In the bellows, caged only by my ribs,

enough hot, dry, salted air

to stroke the tinder with every breath.

Softwood amongst the dry grass,

I was kindling.

They kept trying to smother me,

kicking dirt,

throwing their solo cups full of

boxed wine,

all over my intention,

aiming to ***** out every ember.

So I picked the heads of dandelions,

laid down among the cattail leaves,

wrapped in poplar cotton,

and magnified the birch of my bones,

begging for a flame

that refused to come.

I tore the words from sodden

paper promises,

tied them with the ragged hem

of my once white dress,

blistered my hands with the bow drill

until I found the spark.

You'll try to say you were my kerosene,

but the pines know I was enough fuel.

You can't see the forest now,

for all the char;

the ash laughs along with my fire,

wild and free.

She’s right here.
Her body’s inches from mine
and it’s still unbelievable.
Not in the dramatic way,
not like in books
just this steady, solid hum in my chest
that won’t go away.

I watch her breathe.
Nothing more.
Her chest rises,
then falls,
then rises again.
And somehow,
each time feels like proof
I haven’t done everything wrong in this life.

The air in the room is warm
the kind of warmth that lives between bodies
that trust each other.
That kind of warmth you don’t talk about
because it disappears the second you name it.

Her arm’s curled under the pillow,
shoulder bare.
There’s a tiny freckle there
I swear I’ve never noticed,
and now it feels like I’ve discovered something
no one else has ever seen.

Her legs are twisted in the blanket
like she’s half-dancing in her sleep.
Her lips are parted just enough to make me wonder
what dream she’s inside of.

I don’t want to wake her.
I don’t want to leave.
I don’t even want to blink too long.

Because this is it.
Not a fantasy, not a memory.
Not a wish, or a poem, or an idea.

She’s here.
I’m here.
And the silence is full.

Not empty.
Not lonely.
Not waiting for something else.
Just full.

I don’t need more.
Not a word, not a kiss.
Just this moment,
this breath,
this woman
sleeping beside me
like peace decided to wear skin
and crawl into bed.

It didn't matter if it was
August, and the air felt like an
oven on broil, or if it was
February, and the dumpsters
were icecicles to the soul.
We needed *****, and since we
didn't have jobs, the cans, at
5 cents a piece were our
aluminum tickets to sweet relief.
The magic click.
Enough cans meant a bottle of
whiskey
*****
gin,
anything to dull the
sharp, vivid pain of life.

We sifted through
cat ****
catsup
***** diapers
discarded ***** mags,
and all the other
garbage from the
rich and the poor.

One winter morning,
I threw back a heavy metal lid,
and there was a fat
raccoon looking up at me.
If Bacchus or Dionysus were
smiling, we found a
full bottle.
It happened once in
a while during summer when
the college kids headed home.

Miles of walking,
freezing or burning up,
We were the aluminum
cowboys.

motel window.  dusk.
dark blue.  streaking freeway lights.
rain.  empty room thoughts.

the fullness of words in your mouth
my trembling hands
a truth cuts deep
into the ribs of morning
it's the big bang of language
when silence has no shadow