• Poetry Slam

    Circadian

    I prowl restless empty streets Savoring your breath upon the wind Hungry for lips, tongue, the hard safe circle of your arms   Indoors, art-strewn walls sing and remember our passion’s roar We are animals sated, panting Love-slick drops roll down our limbs entwined   At night I sink into a white-pillowed embrace Dreaming ecstasy, dreaming bliss The seeds of hunger buried deep, fermenting   Morning dawns and I lie curled in your apostrophe You whisper the day’s excitement Enchantment is birthed anew

  • Poetry Slam

    Beach

    Sunshine melts into jeweled waters Wave after foamy tumbling wave insouciantly approaches wetted sands A community of graywhite gulls awaits sunset Pods of black-suited surfers bob companionably over the far reef Determined walkers leave deep-heeled prints Wide empty seaweed-strewn sands beckon, remembering summer crowds Shoes in hand, we amble where ocean meets earth, leaving no trace

  • Ho, Earthling!,  My Brain On Crack

    Belongingness

    On weekends, she wandered across late-80’s on-trend gray-carpeted floors, regarding the mauve sectional they bought after hours of agonizing over seating choices. She walked right through the living room to the front door and peered listlessly out into the blinding-bright Phoenix sun. Then back again, this time through the kitchen with its white tile and whitewashed-mauve cabinets, over to the family room that the house’s one visitor said needed personal touches (tchotchkes, she thought — yuck) and then it would feel like a home. She wandered because there was nothing else. No long streams of adding-machine tape to pore over, looking for the one mis-entry that kept everything from adding…

  • Ho, Earthling!,  Magical

    Moonlight serenade

    Twenty years ago, a little more, I walked. Nighttime solo walks. Walks under the light of the moon. Walks to breathe cool air and smell the damp on cut grass and hear distant dogs singing to the sky. Almost every night, in all weather, but especially after a snow. It doesn’t snow where I live now. I don’t miss it, but I remember how I loved the sounds of snow shovels patiently scraping driveways, and I especially remember how quiet the world is underneath a white soft blanket. Those walks, those twenty-years-ago-walks, were my sanity and salvation, my private world-wide Quiet Thinking Space. I do some of my best thinking while walking.…

  • My Brain On Crack

    Bright

    The second Claire woke up, she knew something was different. It wasn’t the constant steady beeping of the machines next to her bed, tubes snaking to her nose and wrist. It wasn’t the smell of disinfectant and coffee from the hallway outside the door (coffee? was there really coffee here?). And it wasn’t the starched feel of the sheets that lay loosely over her legs, not that she could feel them. No, Claire expected all of those. What she didn’t expect was the light. How Claire knew to look at the light that streamed through open institution-green curtains at the broad windows spanning one wall of the little white room,…

  • Magical,  My Brain On Crack

    Back From the Dead

    I died and I came back. I couldn’t breathe and that fist-sized muscle in my chest pounded a hole through my thoughts and I beat my fist on the wall because I could no longer form words and the ambulance came and the lights were so bright and there I was, walking serenely in a land made of gold where everyone smiled like rainbows and there was nothing that was not made of wonder and goodness but I stepped back through the shimmering curtain to tell my beloved I chose to stay. Sometimes I regret that choice. I wish I remembered more. I still see that nurse in a blue…

  • Ho, Earthling!,  My Brain On Crack

    The Circle Game

    And the seasons they go round and round And the painted ponies go up and down We’re captive on the carousel of time We can’t return we can only look Behind from where we came And go round and round and round In the circle game — Joni Mitchell This is what reading my archives does to me. Inspires me, that’s what. Thoughts that go through my head: 1. She’s a damn good writer. Why doesn’t she write more? Where’s that fucking book she promised? (oh hey, I did write this one) 2. Seriously, where is the damn book? The other book? 3. Aha! A Category titled Rants. I shall…

  • Ho, Earthling!,  My Brain On Crack

    100 and counting…

    There are so many ways to die. She knew this. Daily she plotted her death. Little ways. A sheaf of papers could grow edges and slice knifelike across her white soft throat. The cord of his headset, sprawled oh so innocently across her bed, could stretch and wrap itself like a hungry boa around her neck. The closet door could slam so satisfyingly, crushing her skull into the jamb. Kitchen knives could grow wings. Heavy pots with heavy lids could crash like cymbals into the grapefruit of her head. Cars could swerve and leap over sidewalks. So many ways. There’s no point to being here if Here just means pain.…

  • Poetry Slam

    Circuitous

      In the far, far places where mermaids sing and fishes cry for their mothers there are no sounds only the soft slapping of waves   Your heart stills and your breath sighs raggedly but your feet keep moving, moving pushing your warm soft pliant body of stitched-together skin stretched over tangled red-blue pulsing cords and hard-breathing whitened bone to find the spot where sky meets earth   You sit and wait for a sign, a sob, a sweetness but the roar inside silently deafens and drowns your fears and ambitions, grinding past-present-future into a bright purple Now   In the far, far places where mothers sing softly and ancient…