we climb the continual

we are each born into this world with a dream.

when we first arrive, we know it to our core.


as time—and we—unfold, we begin to forget;

it burrows back down into our recesses.


sometimes small glimpses will come to the

surface, if we allow space: a painted picture, a


sculpted pot, a sleeping story. unmet dreams

follow us en masse down dark side streets,


find us in all-night conversations,

meet us under a portal of stars.


we climb the continual spiral—

toward voice, birth, source, love.
































we are always building

i miss the feeling of shaking

from something other than


anger, other than fear. i go

to my window and look for the


little flowers of hope. they are

every where; fragments amid


very long sentences: the swallow

tail, the barn swallow, the migrating


monarch. your energy goes where it’s

needed; there, it meets the energy it needs.


fire is friction.

imagine these are real:


a tiny wild child on your knee,

a tired dictator on the other, the


view of your own face from the

inside; they are all in the arena


with you: daring greatly.

we are always building: bridges,


portals, spirals, spaceships—

without knowing. all the


water droplets are being

summoned into one


stream, here at the

intersection of all things.




it starts with

a surge,


the intersect of

neck, solar plexus,


words — — then,

the dark descent


down, down into

the cave drawings


of who am i?





built for

slow idolatry


and waiting:

which is its


own electricity—




after all is


said and done;

after all the


battles fought—

few won;


what am i here for?





i want to read you

i want to read you;

i want to feel your words

slip over me, pull me into

their tide, strip me down with

their waves without trying.


i want to listen to the music

of your thought, follow it

into the forest, happen upon

a leprechaun and wood spryte

making gold, making love.


i want the letting of all this

matter into energy; these

disguises to fall away, the

memories of mountain-tops

to sway in their return.


i want to deep-dive into a

painting of a thousand sun-

sets, moments spent think-

ing of you; of our writing, of

our meeting: one and the same.

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.






healing is always happening

in forgotten parts of the

body, like pockets of fog in a

forest that goes on forever.


in this sanctuary, the voices

persist, like wind: tucking you

into the places you resist. the


only things that are real are in-

visible; but you already know this—


and you are all in.


permanent record

when she was a child, she

realized she could move

things with her eyes. she

remembers them levitating,

flying about, crash-landing.


she’s in the middle of her

life now; she feels what

people call a crisis. she

talks to herself, and is the

nicest person to talk back.


she reads novels that are

going no-where; she keeps

seeing under-utilized words that

aren’t there. she thinks one thing

and writes another. she knows


you can say things in a poem

you can’t say any-where else.

people are weapons; even the

kids playing on the lawn in the

warm snow are getting away with it.