Your answer is the thing you see in the mirror,
the animal under your feet in the morning.
Listen to the flower breathe.
It is quiet, but it is still growing.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Friday, July 13, 2012
If you really knew me you would say I am loud.
If you really knew me you would be wounded.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Friday, June 15, 2012
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
The springtime rain is falling
and the road is filled with longing.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Friday, April 6, 2012
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Bicycles spinning across the water.
Architecture rising to our attention.
Bathing in sunshine.
Laughing at dogs while freedom towered above us.
Water to wine.
Sun setting on a verdant secret garden.
Moon gaping between gnarled oak branches.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
My son imagined out loud what it would be like
if we were forced to squeeze our own hearts
to stay alive.
He quickly decided he would drink
from the Hudson River,
grow himself a third arm that could do the work for him
while he built forts,
I figure I would just get tired,
bored of the endless motion, pumping again and again.
Eventually I would lose interest in the process
drift off in some other direction
chasing a more amusing destination,
realizing too late my breath had slowed.
Monday, February 13, 2012
My babysitter set herself on fire.
Not while she was watching us,
but years later. When we had already moved.
She was nearly grown up by then,
still lived in the house next to a field of milkweed.
I heard she poured a can of gasoline
over her head,
sat on her bed,
lit a match.
I can imagine the pain.
Not the physical pain,
because who can imagine that?
But the burn of words unspoken
cries for help like kindling,
small twigs and dry leaves, blowing.
Sparks of anguish melting
in the heat of a summer’s day.
Desperation igniting that way.
Sometimes when I smell smoke, I think of her.
Remember the corn
she would pop on the stove,
removing the top
watching two girls clap and twirl
as the snow-white kernels
fell around us like rain.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
I made an impression of myself in clay tonight,
a self-portrait of sorts.
My maleable alter ego.
I wish it was so easy to shape-shift,
to make myself into something I am not.
green eyes instead of blue
It’s often difficult not to catalog my faults
my daily blunders
The alien was my best attempt
at disclosing my true self--
a sometimes imposter--
a foreigner in my own body.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
I Am Not This Poem
These words do not define me.
They do not even exist, really,
abandoned quickly on the page.
I you we are merely a moment
Carl's blue dot.
These words are a river
coursing through my universe
in a hurry to meet your horizon.