behind the blue ridge

every thing is
shape and shadow;
every thing holds
light and depth and a
hollow core leading
to more.

there are six
sides to
every story:
hex-a-gon s
building their
sacred geometry,

while the eyes in
the bedside table
engrain the lines into
their cell memory:
translucent pools of
been here before.

the way your voice
dips low and mine
climbs high; the way
the wonder hides
as we rush to fill
the lush space:

parallel universes
hushed in black & white;
the occasional punch
of color
makes me

red-head-ed love,
trapped and floating
up a shaking spine of stairs—
leading to the stars,
leading to the little
prince of every where.


singing down the sun

it is hardest to write

a poem for your


self; instead of sending it

out, off into the universe,


this one drills down,

directly in:


straight through

the sin and lore


and shimmer

of deflection


to the very



how can we be capable of

such great heights and


such despicable



we keep making plans,

making plans,


pretending we will never

fall across the threshold.


if you wait long enough

in a still, small room;


if you can out-pace

the race of your fear;


you can hear

its call:


spirit narrating

from beyond,



all —


telling you to look

to the sparrow, to the


love-numbered hairs

on its regal head,


ward of boundless wonder

flying without worry


just above our

milling austerity;


singing down

the sun.






you’re still very small: you

don’t take up much room,


here in this swollen

swoon of little sips and


tiny turn-key tips

like bread-crumbs


to follow down

this crooked path.


you create your own

paucity of time, which


is always

just enough,


just tucked into your

breast-pocket as you


dig through hidden

portholes, running


straight-laced lines

directly to the muse;


swiftly turning the hurried

world upon its haptic head.



13 going on 30

the questions begin before the

womb and continue in perpetuity,

like brazen-string confetti in

an infinite sand storm;


ever colorful, ever messy, open-

ended wanderings, wondering — who am I?

how did I get here? where am I going?

why is the sky blue? when will I know?


words directed at no one and every one,

belted out into the night, up against the

pelt of longing stars — shooting back down

and into us like missile wishes:


wanting to know, to be known,

to see what others see when they

look at me; to crack the mysteries

of the two-way looking glass,


the four pulsing chambers,

the four chords pulling us

into the stubborn harmony

of our dissonant selves.

nether lands


why standing to eat is less lonely

why cleaning when angry works best


why things lie hidden right before us

why a chorus sings through the chaos


why everything has become letters instead of words

why everything has become computers instead of letters


why fresh threads and fresh bread connect the surreal

why counting at the grocery checkout brings the real


why all of the truest things happen in the smallest spaces

why out of all of space and time the spirits meet you there


why we seek truth but tell lies

why we ask why


why this flag of flowers?

why this sea of stars?


why these firing neurons?

why this sanitizing rage?


why these rows and rows of bamboo groves?

and on and on and on it goes.

tulip fields in the netherlands

on the day that didn’t snow


i had a dream in the early hours

of looking out a window and

seeing pale frost-flecks falling; of

dancing with blurs of my father

and putting my mother to bed.

upon waking, i traveled through

centuries of stories — of weeping

and laughing and wishing; sad-strong

thinking pushed me up a mountain

where i sought an open sky

i didn’t know i was seeking:

a long stretch of billowing light —

fading blues; fleeting pinks and

golds beyond capturing; sight-

less wonder holding its breath.

i kept walking toward what i could

not touch — toward the infinite

arm touching me. i kept longing

to climb-crawl right into the sky.