Lee’s Legos



Chasing Lee was fun.

That’s why they did it.

He had angry eyebrows

And threw bright Legos

At the chasers, landing upon

Grey, tar bubble, suburban

Streets…The Converse Kids

Smashed them to bits

With the intensity of their running

Until Lee’s red front door

Slammed into place, a plastic brick

Within his blue glowing home

They returned to the rules

of whiffle ball and hollow bat

Involving tops of trees, curbs

Telephone wires and mailboxes.

Rules… not involving Lee…

Who never, strangely, cried

Like I cried, ever, so strangely.

The pieces were picked up

By morning, by an invisible mom.

Occasionally a lone Lego would

Pop up during a rainstorm

Lodged against brown leaves

Neon yellow against a grate.



Running With The Forest


I cup my hands

Dipping them into

Cliff Creek…and am

Taken back… by

The clearness of the water

So, I peer into the forest, for

The creek’s source,

The Coast Range.

Realizing its spring is

So near the cliff, that

Plunges this newly born water

Into the Pacific.

In the form of

A small waterfall,

Harts Cove.

I hold handfuls of the stuff

That can’t stand still,

Dancing with the sun,

Reflecting through

The driest forest canopy I have

Ever seen…

Drinking mouthfuls,

Which will not make

It to the ocean

I’m greedy with my thirst

(It’s been dry for so long)

I’m here to quench the longing

Now, I must drink………..for

I stand between

Spring and falls, and as

I fill myself

A hiker passes me, noticing

My parched state

I say to him

“I’m sorry. I’ve been running.”








Whitman’s Leaves

a chimney


New city’s children

Too early for maturity

Play upon sheen, oily pavement

Dancing on calloused feet

Barely feeling the heated gravel

Until broken glass reminds them

They are to grow up

Before their time,

Before any time…and

Feed the gullet of infrastructure

Picked from the driest days

A brown spring plucked, to

Produce an eternally chilled

Perpetual youth food, and…

Management, world conditioning

That keeps all matter edible

From the Kuiper Belt to Atlantis

Where Metropole mouths eat

Whatever they want, how they want it

When they want it, even if it doesn’t

Want it…with a thousand

Colors of chalk and charcoal

Clutched in their chimney sweep hands

Drawing hopscotch rules

On top of parking lots

Spread out like barns on the plains, named…

Supermarkets of Lost Foods

Where tattooed hipsters smile

Calming the old children

With sugary whole grains

Warning them of impending

Plastic packaging, pointing to

Green spaces that divide

Handicapped parking from

Silent hybrid auto engines.

Still they shop, grey bearded,

For Whitman’s leaves

in the refrigerated section








Our intimacy is a witch

It casts a desire—which

Moves me to no words

Immobilizes me into

A multiple oneness,

To stillness, which yearns for…

The witch of our movement



Survey Says



Survey says,

                         People with eleven toes do not necessarily have a better grip on things.

Survey says,

                       The most livable cities in the US are located outside the country

Survey says,

                       Antarctica wants to be on top for a change to put some spice into the continents.

Survey says,

                       Some men are dicks, no surprise there.

Survey says,

                     9 out of 10 people believe television is evil. That’s why they watch it.

Survey says,

                       96 percent of the US swear that buffalos have wings, only if they have not been bred in captivity.

Survey says,

                       Kids who enter school at an early age learn to cheat better than their peers.

Survey says,

                     New age music did not start a new age. It ruined it.

Survey says,

                    3 out of 10 strippers think they look better with their clothes on. 9 out 10 of their customers agree.

Survey says,

                    The more climate change warms things up, the more people are willing to ride bikes.

Survey says,

                     1 out of 15 satellites are sick and tired of seeing the same scenery over and over again.

Survey says,

                     8 out of 10 women fake orgasms while masturbating.

Survey says,

                     85% of drunks remember everything even though they say they forget

Survey says,

                    Birds of feather do not necessarily flock together. As a matter of fact, 59 percent admit they hate each other.

Survey says,

                     60 percent of people surveyed said they would not have children. So, it’s the 40 percent who are fucking things up.

Survey says,

                      80 percent of people stranded on a desert island would commit suicide if they didn’t have their smart phone. The other 20 percent were willing to compromise with a flip phone. Thus, humanity could possibly be saved.

Survey says,

                       78% of people believe what surveys say.

Survey says,

                       82% of doctors recommend hollering at the moon. That same 82% recommend seeking medical attention if the moon hollers back.



July 10, 2015, Rockaway Beach





The Tillamook Rescue

Combed the waves for him

Jet ski bucking the tide

With a rider attached to a trailer.

Back and forth they zigzagged

I watched their orange suits

Bobbing on the reflections of the sun

A constant twinkle of life—looking

Longer than all our breaths could hold, combined

Passed between the moments of

A broken crab shell and seagull feathers.

His bluish greyness, camouflaged

By our childhood splashing, swimming, loving

We were still searching

When the sun reached the sea



Unfortunate Cookies

fortune-cookie-sayings-14190729-1Unfortunate Cookies – Complete With Translation Errors 

  • Something you lost will soon turn up, like your wife.
  • Fame and fortune will soon belong to somebody else.
  • You will be invited to an extremely boring event.
  • The one you love is closer than you think. Run!
  • Better to press shirt than to bench press.
  • Love is for the lucky and the brave, neither of which you belong.
  • You will live a short and miserable life.
  • Sun always shines brightest during a drought.
  • You will enjoy good health after a long series of illnesses.
  • Happiness is an inside job and you are standing on the outside.
  • Your present plans are finally going to succeed. Happy 102nd birthday.
  • Shit surrounds you because you create it.
  • You never hesitate to fuck up the most easiest problems.
  • Never count one’s toes while measuring one’s life.
  • You will gain something you always wanted, then lose it all.
  • You will have many friends who annoy you.
  • You will soon die, after living, maybe.
  • Your smile is a treasure for your dentist.
  • Long life awaits you in your storage space.
  • You will enjoy many a great poops.
  • You will enjoy a great many poops.
  • You have a deep interest in all that is perverted.
  • All you hard work will pay off, after taxes.
  • You have the ability to touch the livers of many people.
  • You will kill all your friends with your niceness.
  • It’s time to explore new interests, because the old ones are really boring.
  • You are able to juggle large heavy projects.
  • Take advantage of your parents while the opportunity persists.
  • Your creativity will take you to unexpected misery.
  • Luck is the resin of good pipe dreams
  • Doors will be slamming for you
  • If you continually give, soon you will be out of everything you own.
  • You will conquer all obstetricians.
  • Patience doesn’t wait in line.
  • The secret of getting ahead is saving all your decapitations.
  • It’s better to scramble a hen then to fry an egg in your face.
  • You have a repellent personality.
  • Friends are like chocolate chips. You can never stop eating them.
  • The current year will bring you much happiness. Happy New Year’s Eve!
  • Be prepared for big and small things to fall on your foot.
  • Birthdays are like friends. The more you have the more you wish would go away.
  • Anything is possible when you own a large bank account.
  • Wise are they who do not dumb down
  • Your ingenuity will ruin everything.
  • Laugh long and prosper

Your lucky numbers: Have all been used up


a list

Sweet Weed



The flesh of my lover’s body

Still taut within memory’s touch

That distance shaped my femininity

Her sweet, sweet, large lips, appeared

As a succulent rooted plant

Which allowed me into her meadow

To traverse the yard, to stretch within the clover

Tasting her dandelion, a wine, sweet weed,

The fuzz of her stalk still stuck to my tongue

I was loved for gathering the morning dew

Loose in her garden, leaning with the spin of Earth

I couldn’t stop growing. This she knew.

but now, cut clean as a thistle, a ragwort

Decayed, clipped, mowed down to a level field—

Away from dirt, my girlhood crumbled into dirt clods.

The color of my blossom strained a shady purple

The spiny leaves of my effort condemned me

Now, In the compost bin, I spoke babble 

To ivy, buttercups, and sore, sore sorrels

Who claimed they were willing to stay

Upon dirt, clay and crust, providing, promising

The creation of love, (This is not falling in love)

Planted, Watered, Groomed, Nameless.

Lost is…

Her name, unmentionable, our relationship, banished

As I dried to my death, breasts sagging, she pushed

Beyond my twine, into the moist regions, luring my bite

Until my teeth became mush, I managed a mangled smile

In between old lipstick, gloss, and caked on rouge

Settled within the ridges of my wrinkles

My seeds, vanished, blown away by present breaths

My memory is a vine, wrapping itself

Around thoughts, perspectives, emotions

How my tears are hotter than I remember

Her yellowed flower, a faint scent of sex

Stuck on the end of my eternal nose

Unfortunately applied to the middle of my face


The book of my fall, recited by my children

From their throats, drones like bees

Sing and dance, play above the grass

Where they fly directionless

This is of no surprise, for

I never taught them where to find the blooms

How one comes to a flower

How one talks to a flower

How one becomes a flower

Why someone would want to become a flower


When she sees me, she bends the branches backwards in anger






To Do List: A Poem





What Odysseus Hears



“I have heard this music before,

saith the body.” – Mary Oliver

What Odysseus Hears

This room—is alone—

Shattered occasionally

By voices, seemingly ethereal

Bessie, Nina, and Billie

Who settle the walls, solid

into a comfort, darkened beauty

Yet, a saddened quietude, I share

This room—is alive—

Shaken awake into vibration

A stir within the voices

Suchitra, Asha, and Umm

Bring the room into fervor, spirited

Walls become heated from

An inner atmospheric desire, I share

This room—is flying—

Bow and stern, rug and sofa, with sound

Through firmament, I’m riding—

The entire room orbits the planet

Melody consumes this sphere of noise

For the inner ache of the songstress

Lands upon my ears, a nether song

Which I am tied and bound to, as you

Also, recognize the shape of what, We share

This room—catches shapes—

I cup my hands together

Wanting to hold voices like water

Shirley and sister Dolly, Keyrouz

Hoping a bit of their chants splash

Upon my face, moisten my cheek

The plainsong allays my ears

The walls settle back, solid

Into the shape of a room,

Still on the sea, now a silence, We share


The Blank Page (Portrait #9)




Full of space, it invites your wishes to be written down upon it. Then, as soon as you jot or type something within its parameters, it looks back at you and tells you more about what your wishes then you knew. A rectangle of entanglement, trouble and love within borders, the space is…

It lulls you into a sense of control, then lets loose your words, out, into an area larger than infinity. One little word or sentence stubs your toe or swells your head. Most likely both, leaving you in a state of ogre, the state is…

Ogre. They eat humans and your words are eating at you. Ogres carry large spiked clubs, a metaphor for your pen. You pound your club/pen onto the blank page, into pulp, poetry, and snarky snippets. Look at what this writing space has done to you! You are…

You wake up the next day and begin to think you have gotten it under control. You’re human again. Hey, you’re a writer. It’s tempeh and rice, it’s tofu and garlic, it’s a bowl full of kale. You wash down your normalcy with a nice local cabernet. But, the blank page is like a stomach growl, because some little word or phrase gets stuck in your ogre gut. You then hear the words that start it all, that little gobble, gobble in the back of your head that says, Wild Turkey, pot roast, and pie. Fat is….

The blank page is an empty dinner plate, bone white china. You are searching for when the fat lady sings. She has tendency to sing loud. It’s all about finality. About knowing where to place a period. You have double-spaced, with 12 point font and still the rectangle filled with your thoughts, squirts from under your lucid typing and splatters upon the eyes of the most interrogative reader. The reader is…

You, the blank page, full of space, wishes written upon it.



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