I Had a Hunch All Along

a cycle like water
an alchemist, i blend
this into that
elevated and hot
slumber never sleeps
dimensions so divided
aching for unity
a form with full flow
like seeded wires
connected and fruitful
bringing this stream
to its ocean
so i can move
and move again.

If There Were Parts Like This (June 2000) [from the archives]

I’m reposting a very old poem. I’ve reworked this so many times over. I want this piece to be illustrated. And printed in children’s book format, with a paragraph on each page, rich with visuals. I’m hoping that Sandy and I can one day do that together.


Recently, the sky has fallen
and there have been cold flowers at dawn.

She slipped out the front door
one evening,
sat on wooden steps
in her summer dress
and said,
“I’ve been watching the stars fall.”


It had been a warm summer.
The landscape hummed when it was dark,
allowing silence a chance to be heard.
And it was in those moments
that she would think hard about the dawn,
the cold blue flowers
and why they might have stolen her wings.

She thought hard about other things
she may have said that would cause
such things to be taking place.
“I have been careless with my wings before”,
she said,
“but there have never been cold flowers at dawn”.
Not here.


A few summers ago, she watched a piece of the sky fall,
but thought that it had only been an accident.
And besides, she had her wings, so it helped;
she was always able to catch the stars before they hit
the humming landscape.
It was a busy night.

She hadn’t been getting much sleep.
When evening began
she would slip out the front door
and say to herself “I guess I’ll just sit on these steps
and watch the stars fall, one by one.”
She was clumsy, so she didn’t try to help the recently falling sky,
she thought it might make things worse.
She would just wait, until dawn
and then walk over to where they had landed,
look down at the cold flowers that had replaced them
and ask in a very low voice “Do you know where they are?
My wings, they’re gone, and I don’t know why you are here”.
She cried a little bit.
And walked back to the steps,
thinking hard.
“Sky. Cold flowers. I don’t know.”
Her white shoes were dirty now, from these
walks out to the flowers.
By this time, the sun would be out and she would
feel hungry and lonely.


The kitchen was bright
and full of dusty sun beams.
She ate a plum over the kitchen sink,
and wondered why no one was noticing
what was happening.

“Or, maybe they have noticed.
Maybe it doesn’t matter.”
She realized there was a chance
that none of this really mattered;
because it happened all the time,
and that makes it right.
Something right, and not wrong.
Things happen.

But she was sad.
She couldn’t help but be sad.
She could only whisper to herself,
over and over,
about the falling sky
(long breath—“..the sky. it’s falling.”),
her wings
(heavy—“..my wings.”)

She mostly kept quiet about the cold blue flowers.
She didn’t understand why flowers
could surprise people,
at a time like this.
She wanted to ignore their existence.
She didn’t have time to be thinking
about new (beautiful) events,
she was busy
staying up all night,
worrying about lost and broken things.

She sat down at the kitchen table.
It was quiet, sunlight was moving in waves.
“I don’t know how the story ends.
I know how it started;
I know every absence, I know I was making it go this way.
Now, it’s stopped. Flipped. And, flowers have come
here, they’ve stolen my wings.
Making me sit here and watch.”


She was right.
The sky really had been falling.
The ground was scorched,
but people would just walk by
on their way to work, stepping over the debris:
half lit super novae, spinning stars, even rings from planets.

It was so quiet, and she couldn’t stand it.
There was no laughter, there were no smells,
there was no saving anything.

She walked around outside,
passing over the same things,
and felt split in half.

The flowers
in her periphery
stayed cold and blue –
but she noticed
they were growing.

With the utter of curiosity
she was compelled
to ask the flowers a question,
and with this
the night unfolded into day
as it does,
and she woke with the morning sun
to find the answer.


magnolia blossom pink
with indigo spring dusk
i roll inward
and feel perched
on the edge of my world
a tiny platform made of stone
with twinkle lights,
and a fountain
of a peeing cat.

A Spring Paragraph

when you go so far inside of yourself, that all you can hear and feel is the sound of your own voice – you know you’ve entered into a place that will change you forever. from here, all you can feel is a basic tick-tock of what you are and what you need. and as soon as you allow that tick-tock to be a guiding pulse, everything else starts to fall into place. when you reach to yourself for an answer, you give it to yourself. and when you reach to another to feel something real, it is given to you. and then, with each choice and with each chance, you can open up to what else is possible – how can i be better? how can i be more of myself? you are with yourself, finally. and because you are finally yours, it is with the greatest desire that you wish to give love and happiness to others.

Like Salivation

ok yes, so maybe
i am restless
and maybe i am a little
taken away by beautiful things
like a song or a sentence,
or a mouth saying words,
which gut me
in a particular fashion.

and then i’ll follow it,
like a drive
that works like salivation
a craving
winding up
and then letting loose and spinning.

it’ll drown my heart,
but i’ll keep it up
until the wave breaks
onto my morning shore
with early light
another layer growing
like skin over a cut,
waiting to heal.

It Surfaces and Stinks

not much has changed in these parts
with the mud in the flatlands
rubber boots, plodding along
sometimes standing, doing nothing
processing halted,
with thunder in the distance
and rain in the darkness.

a hunch on what the deal is
it surfaces and stinks,
my vision sharpens
and it’s funny how clear
things can be
when you acknowledge
what everyone else sees.

To Make Everything Right Again

life seems to be made up
of miniature elements stacked
without much notice.

and then, when it’s gone
well, yes – it all comes
a’ swarming in
and floods your eyes
so all you can see is that.

and you walk around
with a big gaping hole
missing in your heart
with a bit of dismemberment
thrown into the mix.

all you can do
is hold onto shreds of yourself
left over,
from some other time.

hold onto it
and grow into more
so that it eventually
fills up all the mistakes
and guilt and hate
and makes you
into a human you can love
again – or for the first time.

a hard thing to accept,
the reality of pure
cause and effect,
no destiny, no magical meaning,
no hidden reason
lurking in the shadows
waiting to unravel itself,
to make everything right again.

Everything, ever.

even and balancing
on turf like marbles
i’m screaming and laughing
breaking stride and then levitating,
i catch my breath and then hold it.

until i release again
and remember that it’s all
just part of the same path
and not a sever,
but a unification of everything, ever.