it’s not the moment that belongs 
to me. moments do not belong. 

only the contents within belong. 
yes. even as the moments fall 

away, what is held within them 
clings… and often remains…

floating in the ether of the
present, fighting for an instant

of respectful acknowledgment
that it, too, wishes to witness

the rising of the sun, raging and
purposeful and new, over the

blazing and acquiescent horizon
that waits with ardent consciousness.



in celebration of imperfection...



amidst the monumental fullness of life,
emptiness is a necessity.

she enters me, deeply.

we sit on the rim of communion,
emptiness and i.

she steals my voice,
gifting me with silence.

and when we part, i leave
fragments of mesoftened by
the lushness of redemptionbehind.

what quickening of the spirit we share!

nothing else will appease my hunger.



another unsent letter

Dear R.,

I know nothing about you. Nothing… except that you are alone. 

I am confused about your aloneness. Your door is always slightly ajar… like an invitation. An invitation that no one dares to heed. Do you keep your door that way with a purpose in mind? Or is that an unconscious cry for connection on your part? Do you know the answers to any of these questions? I don’t. I only know one thing with all certainty. You bewitch me.

My thoughts of you are sugarcoated with curiosity and fascination. Yet, I dare not approach that door. Every time I try, I feel as though I am about to invade a holy shrine. The air is thick and heavy around it, and I am held outside as if by invisible hands. Outside. At the perimeter of that door. At the perimeter of you. And I am beholden to the single framed photograph of a little girl that sits on your desk. 

The girl is no older than eight. She is dressed in a lemon yellow Hello Kitty dress and matching flipflops. She is standing on a beach and waving at the camera, proudly displaying her jack-o-lantern smile while the waves crash around her. Her straight black hair is spread around her face like a fan. Who is she? 

I want to walk closer to the photo and capture the full details. I want to. I won’t. Mine is an ambiguous curiosity tinted with the shame of knowing I am not entitled. I will guard my secret like a relic.

But… tell me, now...

Do you feel the probe of my enquiring gaze? 
Does my interest unnerve you? 
Are you undone by it all?

Do you ever wonder what I want from you?
Do not ask the question.
I will not tell.





the sky calls.
the clouds congregate.

the morning bites its thumb at me.
i smile inwardly and bite my thumb back.

there is no need for this false show of assertiveness.

the air smells of oxygen and grass.
my lips are dry with longing.

i am a flower...

ducking the hollowness of the past,
feeding on the grandeur of the future,
traveling within the briefness of now,

my ears crammed with stories,
my spirit trimmed with light.



sometimes, life moves like a biblical deluge. 
other times, emptiness fills the chambers of the heart. 

* * * * *

last night, i slept with an uncertainty i could not do without.
the rain fell—heavy and strong—upon my rooftop.

this morning, i recognize something new:
rain has its consequences.

now, the trees are dressed in silver and flavored with mist. 
the moss rises to grasp the newly emerging branches. 
i stand at the edge of a visitant breeze, observing
the soundless evolution of this process. 

last night’s dream presses its lips against mine. 

my memory opens like a window to
the pale descent of day.



talk to me

your lips taunt me 
with laser precision from 
the flatness of a photograph

i imagine you alone
though not quite lonely

prowling the crevices of
another’s perceived reality

swallowing it whole
without question

rejoicing in the fantasy of 
false intimacy



drifting in a 
lightness of being.

where have i been?
what has taken me away?

it does not matter.

my footsteps are swift. 
my gait? unimpaired. 

i am at the mercy of the breeze
and the deep blue sky.
they lift me.

where will they carry me?

time has passed.

the sun has risen… and set.
the moon has waxed… and waned.

the world has changed… as have i.

this is a new life.
this is today.



after the rain...

i awaken to a golden stream of consciousness
flowing from a marbled horizon,
a gilded mist that shrouds me
inside its visibility.

already, the daffodils have blossomed
like a constellation of yellow stars
shimmering in an emerald sky.

morning falls.

soon, the bees 
will begin their song.



what if...? what if the wind were to blow me away?

outside, the sky is blue and shattered with clouds. a mild gust is blowing itself into every crevice of nature. i go outside. i sit with the wind and allow it to invade my space. i am, after all, invading the spaces it has elected to inhabit. 

something strokes my awareness. 

i have abandoned the perfectionist. somewhere, i have left her behind. i have disowned that person who expected everything to be just perfect... just right. maybe it was a flaw to be a perfectionist. maybe, on the other hand, it is a flaw to disown a part of oneself. wherever the flaw, i do not discard it. i embrace it. 

i envelope the flaw.
i envelope the crease.
i envelope the blur.

in so doing, i reintegrate what i disowned.

today, i hear everything. i see in bold color. i smell the blend of freshly scratched ink on paper. i feel the exhausted stiffness in my fingers as i pore over this page. i taste, in the pit of my throat, the hunger for more experience and more word and more expression. and, i know that i am just where i need… just where i want… to be. 

it feels good to know this.



she said,
another odd dream.
i can’t recall the details,
but i do remember waking up feeling 
agitated, preoccupied, disturbed.

i said,
as you talk about it now,
what disturbs you?

she said,
she was in the dream.


the one whose imprint
i wish to erase.

i said,
who is she?
does she have a name?

she said,
i can’t name her.

you won’t…?

i won’t… name her.
i won’t give her that.

i said,
is that a rejection of ‘her’,
or a rejection of yourself?

what do you mean?

what about ‘her’ evokes
something in ‘you’?

you insinuate that i’m like her,
she said.
i’m not! i won’t be! i hate her!

i said,
yet maybe it is that part of her
you deny that conjures
a truth in you that you disown.

she said,
that’s absurd!

i said,
maybe so.
and maybe, alternately,
the hour for shining a light
on that shadow has arrived.

she said,
what would compel me to do that?

i said,
you speak of compulsion, though
there is also the matter of choice:

you can confront your shadow,
dialogue, and make peace.


you can allow ‘her’ to remain
hidden from your view,
separated from your awareness as
she festers inside you,

while you encounter the world
like an ocean without salt,
like an eagle without wings,
like a fire without oxygen.



another mindful serendipity...

pale morning.

the rind of torpor
hungers with greed.



oh, the rain of words…
the spill of silent thoughts
inked upon, not paper, but air!

words with which i seek
the subliminal memory of a dream
that remembers me explicitly in
the sinking twilight of morning.

no color. no scent. no sound.
how can you be made to understand?

memory is a somatic presence.
it breathes me in while holding shut
its topography within me.

it tunnels through the hollows of my body,
frayed with incertitude,
leaving its certainty behind.

i am injury. i am salt.
i am wound,
i say.

i am throbbing,
i say.

i am a vessel, emptied
and ready to receive.

i double over.
shadows spill from
my eyes, my ears, my mouth.

something blooms softly
in the angles of my core.

i breathe.
and again.

i remember…
not with my mind,
but with my body.