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Our Second Decade Without

It’s been another ten years now, Dad, that you’ve been gone. You’ve missed so much. We’ve had children now, three beautiful children - all with big bright eyes. You would love them completely. We look for you in them, hoping to find a glimpse of what we so dearly miss, but they all have blue eyes. I remain the only one who got the wild green of your color. We’ve wished so much that you could meet them, but as this world goes, you never will.

The kids have brought us all back home now, where it seems we’ll finally stay put and regrow our roots. You would love this, to have us all back together again. I think it’s a huge relief to mom. I was away for most of this past decade. I went a lot of places. I think I was in search of something, something that I still can’t find. And I did a lot of things, some of which I wonder I’d have done if you’d been back home. Some of what I did though, you’d be very proud of. I tried so hard, Dad. I tried as hard as I could. I know you did too. I think maybe we both tried too hard.

I’m back living at home now and I think almost daily about how grateful I am that you were able to provide this beautiful house for us, and so many other things afforded in my life. But it might be exactly what killed you. We talk about that a lot. And I almost died too. I got really sick, desperately ill. Mom took the best care of me though. I know you would have too. Cole also tried, but we were separated a lot. There was a global pandemic. It made everything change in a fast, fierce and irreversible way. We were forced to isolate. You would have hated that. You always loved a good party, exploring together and looking at the world through rose colored glasses.

But things are so much different now. The harm humans have inflicted on the planet is really catching up with us, and at an alarming rate. There is a deep global concern for the future of our children. And there are things called “school shootings” that have become common place. Also, Donald Trump was president. You would have been just as appalled by what ensued as we were. You were such a good person, always cared so much for the underdog.

Oddly enough, we feel like underdogs now. Our status, power and wealth diminished when you did. So many things were taken from us, and they’ve never been returned. Yes, the children were given to us, and we take great comfort in the dawn of this new life, but none have your green eyes, Dad. No other being could entirely fill the cankerous hole that remains wide and sore with your going.

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Had a damn good time reading last night @furstwurld in JTree 💘💫🌵Steamy, crowded, delightful.⚡️

Big thank you to @jenniferlewiswrites and @redlightlit for orchestrating these magical nights🪄, to @aircrickets for beautifully scoring the show🎸, and @bobbyfurst for having us🏰!

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If you’re in the area, come join us in Joshua Tree tonight! 🏜 I’ll be reading poems at Red Light Lit’s show celebrating the release of @sarahbethenelson’s new album, Mental Picture (@speakeasystudiossf), with Pruno Truman in Joshua Tree 🏜

Join us for an evening of live photography, dance, poetry, and music🌵Link in bio🌵

Tickets $15 in advance (no fees) and $20 at the door!

Photo by Laura Bogner, @joshuatreemodern

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The Figurative Year

I’m uncomfortable with the hours Shape shifting behind curtains Into the looming Shadow of a stranger I never planned to meet - The unfolding of my metamorphosis so certain It comes with detailed instructions Of ticking time And a roadmap to souls But stars still spin too fast overhead And I don’t see which direction leads to the sea

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Join me for a 30-minute poetry set during Red Light Lit’s virtual reading series...

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To Covet

“You are my forbidden fruit,” he says, “I must bite.”

And with the supreme spirit of Dionysus lifting up her skirt,

She gives him his feast - unleashing the words of Wordsworth, 

Igniting the essence of Kant, flooding the Raft of Medusa.

Four eyes meet, electric; four hands clutch, prized; Four legs entwine, utterly - transcendence in the form of flesh.

“But we are not each other’s to have,” she whispers, 

“You must return to her golden hair, and me to his.”

“No,” he says, “Stay. His flame is not of your fire. 

And I’ve carved our initials into this apple. Eat.”

But with the careless whimsy of a child merely seeking sun, 

With time’s panicked pace incomprehensible,

She simply flies away - Leaving him to his mountains and the golden hair.

Days begin to collect in heaps like the fallen leaves of autumn, 

Smothering everything, but his face.

His face trespasses into dreams; it transforms memory into poems, 

Cooley becoming slippery ice under her every step.

She thinks over and over again, barrel rolling through the years,

Oh, Scarlett! Is Tara not burned to the ground? What have we done?

This madness must be unbound. She begins pouring ink atop the snowcapped peaks - thawing white with blue.

“I am your Cleopatra,” she says. “Together, our blood’s rhythm is a war cry;

Our flesh, the authority of an empire; Our coupling, the anchor of deep, rich roots –

Fervent, fecund, formidable - like our fucking. 

Take my hand,” she says, “Come.”

But she’d scattered too many words around, Emptied her basket impatiently, like a careless flower girl who ignores the ceremony.

The locked door did not open with her extravagant bouquets. 

Her waiting became searching for mid-night at noon.

He said nothing. No ink river rushed into her tributary of testimony. He simply sent a song - so subtle the tune was lost to the evening wind.

His soul, the color unknown, had become heavily guarded by a local proletariat,

And she was forced to capitulate, to join rebel forces overseas - seek silence, or death.

But the Fates would not let such a hollow hole be filled; They used it as a lens for the lovelorn, to bring into focus the two Circles of Confusion.

And so the waning merely became waiting and waxed into planning; Planning became passion.

Across continents of skies, pulled from the deep valleys of time, The Fates demanded must in the name of lust.

“There shall be a splitting of atoms”, they said. “Bring forth the light, break dawn on this longing and hunger and absence.”

And with that, with such depth of marrow in their bones, the two bodies finally appear, 

Sitting next to each other on a cold balcony in the late 

January freeze.

Four eyes tangle in the years of divide. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she says, but thinks, ‘Do I know this face?’

A bridge of flesh must be built. Of course. They try lifting left hand to right, but the palms don’t fit.

The universe flips backwards and upside down – Made dizzy by the brazen, harsh air of the Fates’ fool’s errand. Could it be?

No one smiles. Choices were made like his skin, Now inked with history - as permanent as the published page.

“The muse did exist,” he says, “But it was only a slipped legging and your broken stiletto heal.”

At the thought of if, the record player suddenly awakes, Sloppy and then as fluid as April rain – suturing the air with something like memory.

“The Muses you say? Those erratic darlings?” she asks. “No! It was The Fates all a long spinning our thread bare blanket of life.”

“Use shears,” he gravely answers, “Cut loose those intolerable Fates. Leave them to their futile journey through this epic poem of cataclysm.”

Breathless, eclipsed by a New Moon of ugly darkness, 

She sits on the edge of the chair staring.

He does not press his body up to hers. His stomach is not pushed to her lips. He will not force his way between her thighs.

The tongues merely conduct coded casualties - untouched. 

So she pulls her best coat tighter,

Synching it around a single self, 

Around the corpse of a perfect dream.

There had been so many times with silks and scrapes, 

Arching and aching and urging they’d fallen down together.

They had known of a brilliant kingdom, where love had a true definition And passion was a birthright.

But now pacified, burned and buried, The power of this once fantastic intimacy had become vague courtesy,

Where they found unimpressive, mute demons in different sheets, 

Selfishly gathered, but not for themselves.

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Red Light Lit reading 💗💌🎈💗

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This poem was written for a bachelorette who when I asked, “What is most important to you in life,” she answered, “Freedom”. 🦅

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In action...writing poems on demand...💌📮❤️

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All set for the Red Light Lit Valentine’s show 💗

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Taken during a beautiful evening in Healdsburg, CA where I was hired to write poems on demand at the launch party for a gorgeous new art hotel. 🥂🦋🌟

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Poem written on demand for a dear friend. When asked what theme he’d like his poem written about, he answered “existential angst”. Please pardon the spelling error - “*no* one will remember how pink the flowers were.” 🥀

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Funny lil shot from my reading at the “Love is the Drug and Other Dark Poems” book release party. 💌📕💔