Tag: writing
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cannon heart
The line was something about ‘a canyon in her heart’ but I heard cannon heart and like most things, the more I thought about it the more it made sense (to me). (like you maybe) I was born in a hospital but I came home to live for a short while (at least) in the three-story…
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six-word memoir(s)
I was born an island; seeking. we all have a mother (wound.) I remember: the spilling kitchen sink : shrimp fried rice and cockroach poison : the scent of my father’s cigarettes : Department of Children and Family Services the lie I live, is true. about this writing last week I learned about…
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january 2025
1.1 today a blank page 1.2 today a wristwatch gold & clinking like my father wore 1.3 today the second walk of the year burrrr 1.4 today fog so dense it illuminates 1.5 today frosted roads and ethereal treetops…
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12 days in December
12.4 today harder than it has to be my disposition doesn’t help either 12.5 today a walk beneath the barren trees holding their empty nests I count plenty 12.6 today sixty years later Rudolf (the Red Nosed Reindeer) with them 12.7 today our Nutcracker tradition continues and g r o w s 12.8…
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Merry Christmas Darling
In the shower this morning I reached for the volumizing shampoo and there you were, clear as Chrismas in my mind. And it would be weird except for it’s December and tomorrow’s the 25th so, you know- you’re around. I decided beneath the steady stream of hot city water and rising subtle steam to sing…
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Hospitable
I don’t think she’s dying At least not in the ways we think she is I think she’s letting us go Softly, surely putting some distance between herself and the human race one raging wildfire, one war torn country, one (L)Awful Democrazy at a time She does not need us not the way(s) we need…
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november signs of life
11.5 today america votes 11.6 today a gold heart on the inside and on the outside of a dumpster 11.7 today a young man rebounds with a viola 11.8 today more snow than serenity on steele street about this work signs of life is a daily practice in which I write a one line poem…
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ars poetica
is not coming in the door from an early morning walk with a paused podcast in your ear about anonymous people’s experiences with paranormal activity and leaving a voice memo for your sister-cousin because she’s clairvoyant and needs to listen to this last story about the woman who brought spirits home with her from Vietnam…
santos scribes 