fig tree

some fallen, others picked

washed and counted with
the rest of our blessings

greeting card

I feel ashamed to admit

sometimes I see no point at all.
Our lives may in fact be
profoundly pointless, sad,
small, indistinguishable
from any other, mine especially.

feeding

we eat our own bread

but stir someone else's soup -
hearts in our mouths
and ears to the door.

grown up before your eyes a city

a black and white photo of Ponce takes its place

elsewhere or if not trees my ficus will come with me.

some ties just will not tie (before we leave)

a paper rose twisted, smelling of lavender, coming undone.

the day I carried it home on my lap. atlanta

a self-portrait. your reds, yellows and browns

dream in turquoise hoping. everything will happen

public and private

the doors were open. were dusty.

you had already squeaked your way back through the mud.
with the others. with your instruments.

lamp-light from the street outside. a lone chair.
a cello. I closed my eyes.

whatever you heard, you heard from the proper distance -
(perhaps walking away) and it was me as I am. 

not everything else.

all women

maybe the last time you saw that friend was on a tuesday.

today is wednesday and I have sparkles on my hands from playing with children. clay too. we made coil bowls. one for the office.

you and you and you. wouldn't play well together. in a room. my head.

but good news. i've met a few brave ones lately. sorry, they were all women.

and these,

though they were not mine,
became Mt. Tam and every
other lost landscape.

belly talk

Yours in the accent of a Swedish (not French) chef and

mine in the monotone drone of a wall-street reporter.

Dancing at the Righteous Room

Somewhere it is written, people are supposed to be sad when something breaks. If you accept this without question, you're missing out. There is some utility and joy to be found, even in broken things, if one is only open to it. Loss is a poor excuse for sadness, and an even poorer excuse for lack of creativity and imagination.

This is how, despite our great loss, we found ourselves dancing to the Smiths in an almost-empty bar in the middle of the day. How appropriate, how phoenix-like, how poetic - our voices rising in unison to the chorus, "why do I give valuable time to people who don't care if I live or die."

Together we can stamp out world hunger, trigger events that will eventually lead to world peace, tip the scales of unhappiness in the universe and replace thousands of haters with lovers. Together we can do all this. You and I. Cannot be replaced, dear. Not with sadness.

every time I close my heart I make a purchase

in my faith there is

a crack large enough to fit
any peddlers boot.

I went to the circus

and was ashamed.

There was this one act -
a couple who dangled from silks;

I couldn't watch their
love-making.

Suspended, they kept each other
from what I could not.

Apology for Want

I can't accept I

had nothing to do with it,
therefore, I apologize
for having been loved.

I slow down to look 
at wrecks on the interstate.
Some I even love.

Squirrels

I saw Benjamin play for the first time in years tonight. He was absolutely brilliant. What I want to note from this evening, however, was an acute desire I had (while peeing) to rifle through a purse which happened to be left on the floor of the bathroom (wide open beside me). My impulse didn't involve theft in any way, but a longing to know its contents secretly, intimately - like looking in lighted windows at night time, or squirrels.

Squirrels you ask? I wanted to be one as a kid. There's no such thing as private property to a squirrel. I could trounce around in everyone else's yard, peer through their windows and eat their vegetables (our neighbors had a garden). I would have total freedom to roam and observe, unobtrusively, these very peculiar humans and no one would be the least perturbed by my presence - save the Reeds, whose tomatoes I would have stolen.

what's on the menu

First course: toasted bagel with melted Camembert and slices of avocado.

I thought I might be having an anxiety attack when I realized I hadn't had anything to eat all day but coffee and espresso.

Second course: cookie dough. When I bought it I told myself I would have it to bake in the event I had a friend over. At last, the truth comes out (of the can by the spoonful). Motives are slippery little things, even when absolutely nothing is riding on it.

Third course: not yet, but it's cooking. I've practically written an essay on it; how D. is an arrogant, disrespectful, patronizing dick-head who doesn't know how to treat people, least of all me.

Strange thing. I only get upset about it at night before sleep. I lie there blinking, arguing, then finally turning on the light and jotting down a few fresh insults. My latest recipe for trouble.

Left

there was this one time. yes, we were in the mountains. that old antebellum bed and breakfast with the two great oaks out front. it was damp the evening we drove in. and cold. I could see your breath and you could see mine. we brought up your cd player. mississippi john hurt in the low-light. candy man. stepping on each-other's feet. we woke that morning. two mugs of coffee settled into rocking chairs. drops of water on the tin roof. looking out, we sensed a rightness. in everything. accepted what it offered. the left hand of the future not yet having pointed us away.