Some Sort of Love

Some sort of love with a
camera and lens- Ugly is
interesting and interesting
is beautiful

Produce something all
yours to put out in the
world as a freshly shared

Protected at first from
light in a dark plastic
box the project waits for
perfect moments

Children playing, lovers
holding hands, beautiful
people and beautiful things
worth remembering

Never fed grime but kept
clean until the filth has
saturated and turned
to art

Darkness and meaning wait
as the impurities are then
rinsed away for a long,
cleansing bath

Then to develop into
some sort of love
on a 5 x 7 sheet
of photo paper


Modern Medicine

If happiness could be discovered

in that hole in the wall where

even non-believers are stunted

by magic,

if lasting health could just be turned

on with the flick of a switch when

modern medicine isn’t enough to give

some control to its patient,

and life closed to a cover of

glitter and diamonds we would look

at our bedrooms from all angles and be

very thorough spring cleaners.

(From “The Modern Way” 11/23/05
rev. 2/11/09)

No Sense of Time to Dwell On

Watching my feet come up as I
fly through the air, I notice the playful
squeals in the background blur and it's

just you and me in our dirty soccer
uniforms with muddy cleats and scraped
knees and your father is

clapping for you with lessons for
you on how to fly higher and lessons
for me on how to be a kid for a while so

I own the wind as I pump until the world
is reduced to one box of tanbark, untied
shoelaces and no sense of time to dwell on.

(org. 11/23/05 rev. 2/11/09)

She Waits

With knees tucked in
tight from the curb, wide eyes
eye as the cars keep
brushing by.

A woman with a bushy hairdo
and too much makeup comes
to lead inside that poor little
girl she could not recognize.

Into the evening the child
waits- calling a dial tone for
a mother, a father,
a loving embrace.

(org. 11/23/05 rev. 2/11/09)


Rain's becoming to my face, the

misty winds: a cold embrace.

Faeries ting-a-ling little bells on

the toes of little stockings. The

noise's too soft to be heard. Frost

spreads over the ivy. Ting-a-ling!

Trees dance barefoot

under piles of leaves. A

small, white paw tosses the

decayed leaves away for the toy that

would be favored anywhere. Seasons

changing. Ting-a-linging.

Rain's becoming to my face, the

misty winds: a cold embrace.

Ting-a-ling! Sprinkles of sparkles step

up to the crossing, racing frosting

forests from this juncture all the way

up to the hills.

(org. 11/12/05 rev. 2/11/09)


You lose the feeling, ever so

often of some driving force which

compels you to ride off road, but they

say the only sure path to happiness is

to let go of the blinding focus because

a tight grip on reality always leaves

imaginary friends unsatisfied.

Mr. Moon follows your stare through

the car window until you're drawn out of

your new sandals,

and maybe the quickest way across

the sound can’t be a free stroke, but your

Great-Grandparents wonder what all that

rush was about in their youth.

(From 10/1/05 "Imaginary Reality" rev. 2/11/09)


These broken blinds won’t shut all the way.

Yellow streetlights bounce their glow

off the browning leaves

onto the wet concrete. Through

the crack of naked glass are

deserted children’s toys, a lush lawn, and

a bird’s nest balanced bravely on a branch.

Every fresh drop of dew can be seen

sparkling so clean, and clear, and

crisp out in the air. Inside

the room is unruffled, but stuffy.

Comfortable, but way too safe,

Full of technology, scented candles, the

common cold, a stiff neck, and an

overflowing trashcan.

To live in a world of deep breathing, to

stretch out in the cool grass, to run in

the wind; it must be nice.

(org. 9/27/05 rev. 2/11/09)

When We Get There

You stand on my doorstep one day
Sun kissed glow
No idea of what

lies ahead as we both stare
awkwardly smiling
Come in while I get my things

We've no command of
this path
But there must be

better waiting for us
when we get there



I forgot such a functional family existed:

Immature kids and parents alike. The gangly

daughter gripes at her little brother as we

pass many signs, across a dry freeway-

caking piles of dirt crumble to dust as

the wheels turn over the covered

pavement and I point out an Arizona

license plate four cars up, stealing the

lead with 400 points and I surrender my

battle against the sun on my knees as the

daughter gives up on her pointless fit and

rests her head on her shoulder while she

reaches for the bag of chips in the back

seat and lips form the word “noun” as

the older sister writes something out

of our view so as not to spoil the story.

The young boy has fallen asleep in the

back of their trash-filled station wagon

with his face covered in crumbs and

the hint of a smile as a cracked window

up front whistles, bidding speedy winds

fly in to make a stressed mother’s ponytail

even less structured with her dark hairs

whipping around unmasking streaks of gray,

once veiled and an aroma of green

apples greets us as the sun through the

window, not tinted, borrows a square of

pink on a fair-skinned leg, which could

only belong to me and even the food wrappers

and empty Capri-Sun bags seem to bask in

the warmth and the car purrs steadily

with the sleeping child’s breath.

(org. 7/29/05 rev. 10/9/08)