I smiled with a breezy what can you do faultline to my mouth,

and laughed and walked away,

as if I had a purpose and those words weren’t important,

mere droplets of water sliding off a ducks back,

so no one would notice

that I was skewered to my soul,


Why did I allow it?

So easy to ask.

So easy to condemn.

But impossible to explain.

I went shopping,

 looking for something warm and bright and comfortable, 

and instead wound up imprisoned,

a dummy in a window display,

frozen in a pose and outfitted in a style

I never wanted.

Yet I invested so much in time and energy

and dreams

pulling back from the chasm became so complex it was easier to stand still,

even as it was cracking wide open,

even as the tremors made me stumble 

back and forth blindly,


Too much gets buried when the landslide takes you,

so you hang on to what you can,

and you promise yourself that it will all be worth it when the earth finally settles.

And hope that the scars will fade,

before you have to explain them,

before you have to explain

what you

don’t understand.

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I Am the Sun

I lie back to watch the clouds,

and listen to the grass sigh under me as it slumps,

forming to my languor,

 and I pretend I am a chalk outline ready to be filled with colors and shapes

from a poets last dreaming.

The sun glows hot orange and red behind my eyelids and I let the coolness below 

and the heat above meet in the middle.  

Am I rooting deeper into the earth?

Or am I flying into the sun

my arms spread to catch the wind?

I am the sky.

I am the earth.  

I am the sun.

The tree hangs over me and the leaves wait in line to share their


The wind picks them and they float with the telling,

and the spinning seeds thank them as they pass.

I am learning the speech of leaf and seed,

and I too,

want to plummet into the recitation and tell the roots my story,

and feel it settle into them and 


I am the sky.

I am the earth.

I am the sun.

My skin tingles as the light pours and I tilt my head

to absorb it all,

 and I imagine myself a glass

glowing with the heat,

and the tendrils sink into my veins

streaming gold and 

I shine with my own reflection... 

A mirror for the clouds, 

silver white and stormsmoke gray,

and breathlessly balance myself along the azure

 rim of the world.

I am the sky.

I am the earth.

I am the sun...

I am the sun.
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Happy 4th of July



Let’s all come together to work for a truly Great (and Cheeto-free) America. Where ever and whoever you are, however you celebrate – or don’t – I wish you Peace.



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Chameleon Madness

I change the pain to fit the face 
of the one fielding the telling to,
shifting the colors to their mouth tightenings,
a raised eyebrow deepens the green and mutes the red,
any sardonic tskings make the pattern sink shamefaced into drab.
I shape the outrage to the panel of judges,
surely not look trims the wick of my rage and waxcoats it with self deprecation,
settling for an uneasily fit one of the group mask until a
 piece of patronizing hits me, 
hurts me,
 “not friendly”
     “not grown up enough”
         “can’t take a joke”
and there my colors go again…
This poor mad chameleon
recreating itself
in a strangers image.
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Obstacle Course

I am just so accustomed to thinking no one is going to approach my body with kindness.                                                                                                                                           ~ Roxane Gay


I push the air in front of me as I walk and hope it cushions,
so that I pass unnoticed through the crowd,
and the scraping feeling across my neck lifts
away leaving only the tingle,
like the shudder from a lemon slice,
still tacked lightly to my nape,
ready to burst out in full force if attention heats it back to clutching point.
I move with dull and dogged steps 
feeling like a volcano,
towered violence waiting to break free,
but it’s not lava that I spill, 
silent and dumb tears.
 Words can’t hurt you
should be rephrased as 
words can’t hurt you where it shows…
In a world that bows to the uniform,
those wounds cannot be allowed to surface,
to throw the pattern off,
to jangle the color scheme,
to skew the line.
A closed door and a slumping shoulder
are the only signals that I,
the reluctant and battered contender, 
can allow. 
Letting the air move freely,
to surround me,
in such gratitude for a crumb of respite.
As the obstacle course resets itself
for the walk tomorrow.
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Language of Love

You don’t see it on my face
I guess.
It’s not in the space usually looked for.
It’s in the words,
 although hidden,
like old notes in a book,
language cloaked in a rough and raspy cloth,
to hide the velvet of my heart.
I love you doesn’t come easily,
they stumble and crowd together in my throat,
like clumsy people in large wool coats.
Emerging as;
Be safe.
Where the hell have you been?
Are you hungry?
You don’t see it on my face
I guess.
My expressions are not arranged to glow,
or shine tenderly with the finer feelings.
They’re frowny and fearful and preoccupied,
but the preoccupation
is a side dish of love…
Have you eaten?   I love you
Don’t be late.   I love you
Try again, try harder, try your best.   I love you
Nothing.   I love you
I said Nothing.   I love you
Yes, I will.   I love you
No, I won’t.   I love you
Just forget it.   I love you
You never talk to me.   I love you
Goodbye.   I love you
Goodbye.   I still love you.
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It’s about terror.

That’s all.
It’s about being the thing under the bed. The monster in the closet.
The footsteps behind you at night.
It’s about terror.
If it were about one cause or one goal or one vision
the world would be reeling with a ‘new’ word: Terrorism.
But it is old as the hills, older actually.
You only need to whiffle through any history book.
Terrorist attacks are about terror.
Terrorist like to see themselves as mighty heroes, when actually they are akin to the cockroach. 
Millions of years of progress and change and they are still here.
Because they scuttle, they keep to the shadows, they slip through cracks.
And know how to wait.
They can survive on anything; poisons, dirt, things deemed inedible by other species.
The rotten, the disgusting, the discarded – they thrive on it. They get bigger on what other living things shun.
Cockroach heaven is a reeking garbage dump in the dark.
Terrorists are cowards, fooling themselves about a bigger purpose, a higher calling.
It’s a cockroach move. Making a space for themselves on top of the garbage dump.
And they love to watch us fight each other.
Blame each other.
It takes the focus off of them, safely hidden in the cracks, biding their time.
It’s about terror. Sick, twisted, cowardly and indefensible terror. 
That’s all.


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