don’t believe

the mirrors—


except in cars;

and even then,


in moderation.

i’m headed out


into the 3d world:

where i’m visible


in full—not just from

the front and torso up.


i need to feel real

pages in my hands,


real road under

my wheels. i’m


listening to tori,

trying to feel some-


thing. the truth is,

i don’t like music with


words anymore. there

are too many words in


the world. this is probably

how some people feel about


poetry; it’s how i feel about

poetry, sometimes. and yet,


here i am adding to the heap.

in my dream, my mom and dad


are young and happy. they look

like they did on their wedding day:


beaming and laughing and

of a piece. but we are also there,


we three girls. they’re drinking

red wine and being the life of the


dinner party: a glimpse into the

before. in another dream, i am


being assaulted by a robotic arm

with a giant camera eye. it’s still


attached to the corner where the wall

meets the ceiling as it roves over my


body, pressing down hard on me

with a hum. somehow it’s the whole


length of me. i think of the incubus

in florida, but after. in the moment,


in the dream, i’m just trying to

cry out for help—but it may all be


stuck in my head. there’s a loud

alarm going off that i think i’ve


triggered. how do dreams

become 3d? or is it all just


smoke and mirrors? i am a

vessel of shifting memory:


moving from bliss to terror to

bliss again. the wide extremes of


being. maybe this is how we

learn the middle, the balance.


as i sit and think of the years,

the sharp ache is finally gone—


but in its wake, a deep

loneliness that has


learned to expect,

and love, solitude.








the opposite of time

there are no synonyms for

you; you are one of a


kind. in my dreams, it is

so clear: what i want.


it is the meeting of

body and mind.


my mind does not

leave my body; she


takes her along,

loves her the whole


stay. being asleep

is the real awake:


the opposite of time.


while not asleep,

i’m in my own way.


i hold my blueberry coffee;

i stand in the hospital corridor


with my throat shut. the

sickness perseverates


in the mouth, jaw,

throat, chest, gut;


the non-words

in duress.



is terror—


a forever



but in dreams,

it is made into


beauty: alchemy

as it should be.


i go to sleep under

a November tree,


between the

bright carpet


and brighter

hangings, and


meet you there.

each time you get better

i will never forget what it feels like to fall

in love—because i feel it every year at this


time: the deep stillness; the wind; the wait;

the open sky; the crucible of cooler air, shifting


leaves, things coming out of the cracks to play.

it’s a final act; you can feel the beauty in the


urgency. it’s everything you’ve trained for—

happening in these few months—at a breath-


taking pace: the sugar build, the fullness,

the vivid colors, the dance;    the fall; a giant


hinge turning in a door as you watch it open,

smile, take a huge breath, and then close.


in those precious moments, everything

tastes better; everything feels brighter;


music sounds better; you feel lighter.

but everything in this life is temporal:


everything changes, everything dies.

even in the middle of your love, your


cells are singing right before their final sigh.

each time you get better at saying goodbye.



you are the poem

sit silently with your self;

listen to your breath, to last

night’s dreams, to the hammer

heart-beats which carried you


through. listen again. do you

hear your treble, the shaking

space between your stanzas,

the tremble of your verse?


you are the poem.


stop letting in all the noise. make

your own noise—just for you. if you

don’t want to rhyme, don’t. let your

capitals go. be un-titled. let the







you. swim in the imagery, steep in

the buzz of beginning over that of

belonging. watch a being give

birth. you are the poem. it will


all be over soon. taste each syl-

la-ble in your mouth, feel the tug

of adrenaline in the pit of your

stomach: the closest to the center


of child hood you will ever get

again. take cream in your coffee.

romance your selves and those

clinging to them with satin


static. if you take a title, own

it; sing it out with each pulse.

hug the children, love the world,

speak the beauty, love the poem.


you are the poem.





humanity v. machinery

without light

there is no color.


darkness is

the default.


you have been given a hall pass;

why aren’t you wandering?


tunnels of cool white tile, green carpet as quiet as moss,

hundreds of stampeding feet now caught in class.


if you go straight from point a to

point b, you are squandering your


right to stay in the liminal

for just a little while.


every thing will pick back up too

quickly and too easily and this


moment will be gone.  with great

beauty comes great risk—the light of


dawn; and the bigger dare: to follow the

red neon signs and exit the building.


you are an occasion

you do not need

an occasion to

be celebrated.

you are an occasion:

an event, an unfolding,

a unique record of time

& space & words & cells &

growing & wonder & terror

all wrapped up in love

& beauty and spinning at

the speed of a miracle.



a long stem of pulse_picture2

in the late, late heat of summer

crickets click their last relief-song.


when i wake from wise dreams

i will be a stranger to myself,


toddling this globe-head around —

filling it with forgetfulness


and random etchings: love, war,

electrocutions, flesh-colored candles —


asking to be filled with wine,

begging to be drunk.


just being alive

is a liability.


it used to be so simple;

it used to be seven white cranes


stretching in a parade, lifting their slender

necks against the blue-green blade.


to truly attend to



is pain: all you see

is a long stem of pulse.

a long stem of pulse_picture

-photographs by sergio mora