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.





pick just one thing

what do you do when the

world seems to be coming


apart? how do you embody

the bravery that you know you


will need, that you know your

children and your children’s


children will seek for their very

survival? when the system has


turned cold and impervious—

the governing body stripped


of its head and its heart, and in

its place: angry fistfuls of gold—


how do you continue to break

in, break through, without


breaking down? pick just

one thing. pick one thing you


can learn, one thing you can

research, one person you can


help, one word you can say, one

way to hold on to that bravery


and hope; pick just one thing.

no one else can pick it for you:


find the thing that speaks to

you—above the roar of bullshit,


the one thing you can do today,

right now, every day, as small as it


seems. each person doing just one

thing with love and intention will build


back a breathing, beating body:

whole and full, with head and heart


and arms and hands open

and ready to receive again.





you make me

feel my bravery,


my body



how many centuries

have we climbed


together? you hand

me the spy glass and


i chart our course: over

too many thoughts and


too few feelings. we

are always seeking,


always forgetting where

we’ve tread; always reach-


ing for a brand-new match-

ing set: heart and head.



you are not



even when you

want to be.


you are surrounded by

a big black hole of


energy–an effigy

spinning at the speed of


the catastrophe you

place yourself in-


: again and again, just

so you can test the




i want

i want to put a big thick

hard cover in your hands.


i want the sands to stop

running; i want to feel them


pausing between my toes,

breathing, sweating. i want to


stop running from what i love.

i want to reach down and pick up


a star-fish in mid-regeneration

and say: this. this is important.


i want this world to break wide open

and finally find the love-chest bursting


deep down inside. i want to stop hurrying,

i want my girl to stop worrying, i want our


time here to mean something, to feel our hands

and feet move like colors in the sky, to know


our own voice again, who we were long before

birth, long before the birth-right shoved in.


i want to feel the hot rolling waves of desire

and malaise coming off the night. i want, i want


to follow that buzzing song straight through

my skin into my heart-grave and beyond.



train of thought

i am more than these lists running in my head; i am more than this space ship of a body; i am more than a paycheck at the end of the week; i am more than a heavy heart; i am more than a birthing machine; i am more than the maker of chocolate cakes; i am more than a wet dream; i am more than these ten fingers; i am more than these five holes; i am more than this lapse in judgment; i am more than a time marker; i am more than the lover of hide-and-seek; i am more than this train running off its tracks; i am more than these trophy cells; i am more than the keys of this chain, board, lock; i am more than a place to put your pieces; i am more than a piece; i am more than not.



goldenrod 2
i was watching mad men while you were dying.
your last text is still in my phone, the one i
received while waiting at the bus stop under
october trees. i typed all of the texts onto golden-

rod paper, the kind you used to bring home
from the office, the color no one else wanted.
i wanted: the gloaming bursting right through my
skin; thin sheaves hanging about me like leaves.

i do regular drive-bys of these
places in my heart;
i do not want to forget them.
i do not want to forget them.

all of the griefs get balled up together
with all of the strongest loves, the truest
words, the deepest smells and
touches. they keep the heart beast

pumping. if i want to feel really bad,
push myself down to the depths i feel
i deserve, i will not think about you,
i will not write, i will not love—for days.

i know in the end it will all come crashing through:
the mad bull in search of—not the matador, not the
bright red flag—but the sad eyes of the child mis-
placed in the crowd, peering through shaking fingers.