more & less: 16 intentions for 2016


20151231_131703 Addendum: Work on handwriting and aligning columns? Nah…

Note: The blur on the left column was not intentional… but it fits. Focus is on the right.

Happy New Year to all! ❤


the dark side of the day

i burned my hand making a tuna melt.

i suck on the spot, pulling the skin off the

middle knuckle bone of my right hand into my

mouth. it’s looser than it once was, less elastic.


see you in the new year we say cheerily, as if

things will miraculously improve, solve

themselves, by the next time we see

each other—just by a calendar flipping.


it’s the eve of my birthday and i’m here to

say that nothing ever really improves;

we just find more ways to manage the sad-

ness, the loneliness, the expectations, the


inevitable aging. old friends drop away, new

friends are harder to make, and the dull ache

of an old flame is still there, somehow sustained

like a red poppy in a field of unanswered questions.


if we are never

every time i have words for you,

i throw them into a poem.


they’re safer here,

and grounded.


i can feel you right here

with me:


in the shelves, in the recipe-sheaves,

between the leaves:


pressed tight

and true.


even if we are never



we are, somehow.

i don’t under-stand it;


but i honor it and love it

and wait for it to change


me, every



spiral station

when i forget my train of thought, i

just follow the track back to you,


to your looping voice, a trusty rail car:

i love the way you think, the way i


think when i’m with you, the way

only you under-stand the vast sad-


ness of a lost button—the sudden

static that needs but cannot be filled.


the end-less metal snakes through

rusty words/languages/loves;


catalogued and measured out in

phrase doses: hay mucho frio.


packing and moving and emptying out

yet another house, seeing it laid bare:


the walls, the windows, the doors, the

base-boards; the parts that always


blended in before; now naked and

screaming: life happened here!


this dust, these cobwebs, these

memories came from your very bodies:


skin, brains, spirits, bones—each

room is a poem, each corner a


transference of smell, touch, sound,

feel that will never be reproduced.


you use it all to write a six-pack song

that you carry & whistle as you move


along through the harmonies, chords,

installations, tiniest shreds of signs—


over the wide open acres of sound: until

you come to the end of the line.