to strive

the year is killing people—

that’s what we’re saying.


it’s been a tough year, for

sure. some of us have felt the


killing of our spirits, of our efforts

and voice and purpose in this place.


but every year, people die.

every year, people kill


each other, themselves. and

every year, people rise up, with-


stand hardship, come back to

life and reach out a hand to each


other. this year is just another year;

another man-made construct in


time and space. it is what we make

it; it is what we choose to honor and


remember and take with us deep into

the next phase. this death is just another


death, which is just another door. let it

not be said that the year is killing people;


nor that people are killing years. let us stand—

tall and alive—as we take the floor, as we take


back our spirit, as we cherish the memories

of those who have passed, the touch of their


tragic-beautiful lives living on in us and through

us as we continue to live, to love, to strive.



the beautiful rest

there is no time to be afraid;


just walk into the question:


it curves around and meets you


where you are—then takes you


to the beautiful rest.





the first few months are magic, are safe,

are exhilaratingly edged, are me showing you

my best held-together self. it’s not fake; i’m really

feeling it, really flying. but it’s not the whole


package. it’s as if a part of me—that

spiny slant of light—has split off and

soared—and you are the reason, and the

co-pilot, and the sunset, and the high.


the trick is in the sustain. all things must come 

to a bend; all things must eventually land.

but what a fucking ride.

what a fucking sunrise.


i would not go back and change a thing.

ok, maybe a few tiny things—

but only on my end. you were every

thing i needed at that time.


you were

every thing.

and for a moment,

so was i.




the art of doing nothing,
waiting for the something
to arrive: a glass dipper,
a studded wardrobe, a
silent snake creeping;

the heart of living in the past,
just under the stroke of mid-night:
a diadem moon lowering onto our heads,
a dream within a dream within a dream
removing all doubts and currencies.

i am dismantled again and again
in this place without name,
without boundaries:
in my forest green alive,
in my one knit slipper.


the ever-giving opera



after all the snow — the chilled beauty and heft

continuously served early, middle, and late;


after the desolate dark during which I dreamed

my self dead a dozen times and ways —


the greening court-yard!


and in it,

one lone red star;





the ever-giving opera of spring.


red tulip_cropped


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?