Few and far between are words that really make it worth while.


i wrote you into the margins,
white space near the spine
where the pages meet and
crease, creating deep valleys.
carrots and brackets, a
comma in the line, saving
the details for later.
abbreviated affection, and
short hand for what i meant
to say, or mean to say, and
will unknowingly, but
purposely, look up later
JUST to check the facts.
deciphering, attempting
to carefully decode the
phrases and dictation taken
while you looked the other
way.  but this is for me,
a bit of prose, a footnote,
reminding me to always


We're wishing we were waves,
water rushing barefoot feet on
beaches and lovers laying in
sandy coffins covered in the
wet, wiping away sudden sweat.

Oh I dream these things, as
the tool to taking my mind away
from earthly emotions is sitting
in sand, lifting my hands and
seeing it sift over the skin
along the crux of my condition,
my arms above searching for sleep.


i'm pushing pens and pencils deep in pockets
to places where hands should be placed. and
these fleshy utensils are taking the place of inked
tools, as fingers are pushing paper pages and making
mountains of blue lines, lifting pen strokes
into mounds of pulp, piercing the air and eloping
near your ever-eager earlobes.

three: november (but only a piece)

... sweet november came and went without me and
i discovered what poetry was never meant to be
and i wrote it anyway because shoving my hands
deep in winter pockets searching for the answer
wasn't enough to figure out how to dig out. and
in december i died a little while sitting alone
listening to bedsprings bouncing above me. and
for a month following a bitter november i slept
and sat by myself hoping something would come to
me because action is not what always comes first.
so when i read "like lovers and hereos, and the
restless part of everyone We're only at home
when we're on the run" i realize lyrics weren't
made for people like me. 


four: we can't, and it's OK

i waited for the heavy breathing -- the sound that
signaled he was wherever it was he went when i wasn't asked along.
his time-in-bed tangled tresses tickled my nose and a hiccup in his
steady breaths loosened the safe grip on my fingers.
i had become used to spurts of snoring and minor movement, but
the silence was unsettling
and when i couldn't take the air and heat of him i opened 
my mouth to a silent scream,
we can't take shadows to bed with us!
but the whisper of my lips instead mustered,
i'm falling in love with you.
cat's scratching at the bedpost and again you grip my fingers
like drum sticks and i'm thinking of how easy we are,
how the baggage we have could move millions or 
house the breaths you've held in as we've slept -- side by side -- trying
to guarantee ease in night dreams for easy mornings.
and amid new movement i'm thinking we're anything but
easy and months after i left my lover only to relapse into
nonrelationships and promises with a man who could make me 
sleep ... so ... still. there's still no pictures of us, becuase there
is no us.
we are shadows of something we want and we lost
and we love and we can't say so -- so now you're turning,
grips giving and we're loosening our lips and i'm putting
words into your mouth.
shifting sheets move your fingers and i'm pushing heavy
breaths near your ear and i open my mouth to start back
at the place i launched and left,
we can't take shadows to bed with us ...
but i want love poems and you are dictating the details, our
beats and meter as you breathe.

I've found that most of the poems I write are not meant to be put on a page in a book and to be read and analyzed as such. Rather, my poetry is made for performance. If you haven't heard me live, then these may read poorly.