So   often, who I am speaks to me.
So  often, who I want to become, becomes clear.
So often, the angry voices begin to still.
Soften, self, and embrace the possibilities.

Day dawned dreary
skies grey and void
my pack, heavy
my motivation, waning.

Press on, I must.
No other options
if you don’t count death,
or obsolescence.

Onward, my mantra
however disheartening.
My stomach filled
with meager portions
and sleep supplied
within stringent parameters.

Scarcely enough to sustain…

Struck down as I was
with the numbing hardship
of the onslaught,
I feared reward
was no longer viable
but that did not prevent
hope from creeping in,
from coloring the blackness with
pastels and birdsong,
luscious shades of creamy
choirs of joyful redemption,
teal trumpets and scarlet saxophones.

Truly, that is the only thing
that kept me going.

We set out on a path
of wavy, winding light.
Cobblestones deeply grooved,
made more prominent
with tricks of photography,
voila! the finished product.

Skylarks in distant meadows
feed their young
nesting on the ground,
easy prey for red-winged
messengers in the early light.

Street lamps lit by ocean spray
small boats, helpless, in the rocky cove.
Abandoned relics
mute and silent
aside from the cries
of ravens and rooks
on hurried wings.

The glory of the sun retreats,
beauty in its own right.
Night falls.

We are spent.
Rest, now.


The tall grass hides me
it sways in the breeze
tickling my cheeks, my bare thighs.

On my back
the earth cool and damp beneath me
I search the sky
groovin’ on the cirrus clouds overhead
so many lifetimes beyond my reach
a dome of invincibility
I will be reluctant to leave behind

some fine future day.

Summer lasts forever
when you’re barely fourteen.

You think your world is bigger than mine,
and any slights that invade your space
carry more weight,
inflict more pain,
require a heftier penance.

I’m tired of believing this is true,
of going all in on self-loathing,
defending myself for what I know
are sometimes just good intentions gone wrong.

So weary of thinking I’m simply not enough.

June bugs spin,
on the cool, damp garage floor
at half past midnight

thoughts of gangrene catch in my throat —
tube-socks filled with lime Jello shots
tempt me from the task at hand —
a testosterone-crazed Min-Pin

leaping and lunging
desperate to savor the beetle-crunch
in its powerful jaws
when all I wanted him to do

was go potty.