nether lands


why standing to eat is less lonely

why cleaning when angry works best


why things lie hidden right before us

why a chorus sings through the chaos


why everything has become letters instead of words

why everything has become computers instead of letters


why fresh threads and fresh bread connect the surreal

why counting at the grocery checkout brings the real


why all of the truest things happen in the smallest spaces

why out of all of space and time the spirits meet you there


why we seek truth but tell lies

why we ask why


why this flag of flowers?

why this sea of stars?


why these firing neurons?

why this sanitizing rage?


why these rows and rows of bamboo groves?

and on and on and on it goes.

tulip fields in the netherlands


on the day that didn’t snow


i had a dream in the early hours

of looking out a window and

seeing pale frost-flecks falling; of

dancing with blurs of my father

and putting my mother to bed.

upon waking, i traveled through

centuries of stories — of weeping

and laughing and wishing; sad-strong

thinking pushed me up a mountain

where i sought an open sky

i didn’t know i was seeking:

a long stretch of billowing light —

fading blues; fleeting pinks and

golds beyond capturing; sight-

less wonder holding its breath.

i kept walking toward what i could

not touch — toward the infinite

arm touching me. i kept longing

to climb-crawl right into the sky.



what is it about the morning,

the fresh-quiet newness

when you can take it in


slowly and think on it

lovingly like a careful

caress to the head,


the scents of every

thing coming alive

and together,


the sounds of winds and

birds and chimes and

children and steel-will


machinery gearing up and

moving the water and the earth,

birth-rising to meet you and


your vulnerability as you step

off the cliff once again and 

fall into the novel possible?

fall back

waking to an empty

house, the light tripping

across the quiet


my love is states away


a beautiful silent film

that keeps playing, that


keeps falling back

and springing


ahead; a glorious loop

crying out for pause


as the people laugh and

shake their bellies and

wait for their ship to come in


the storyteller dances on

the dock to the soft click and


fuzz of the reel, stitch-sweeping

the curious eyes, mouths,

non-voices of clowns


while the ship creeps


across the cutting

room floor