Thursday, March 31, 2011


Everything gets me back to where I was
But it never looks the same

My shoes feel smaller,
I grow taller,
But when I look in the mirror it’s the same smile peering back at me

Today is my day; as all days are
Because there are no days

What am I thinking? Is it what I want the world to be?

I can create anything.
Everything sits in my palm;
Deep in my stomach my energy pulses begging to mix with my surroundings

Life is play.
Round and round-
Breaking away from the circles

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

up lifting...


There was a time-
But the world can switch so quick on you.

Sometimes you are so sure.
            Filled with something perfectly known and felt
Difficult, yes, but you.

And so home.

Then you remind me I’m an animal.

No one knows it, and no one listens.
            They leave when I’m by your side
Your hands wrap around my ears, I fall in and then I’m at rest

This new world, I am reborn-
Peeling out of myself.
Shedding layers of thick leather.

            I think of kids. And things.

I think of anything nice.

The world shifts again-
Grabs you from under your toes
Forcing your eyelids open and then you stair out front
Pupils drawn and there you are.

You look different, and it is ok.
It is good.
It is life.
And then you remember-
I’m still an animal.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Look up and out...

Step in...

from my current read...

Something to think about...

You form the fabric of your experience through your own beliefs and expectations. These personal ideas about yourself and the nature of reality will affect your thoughts and emotions. You take your beliefs about reality as truth, and often do not question them. They seem self explanatory. They appear in your mind as statements of fact, far too obvious for examination.

Therefore they are accepted without question too often. They are not recognized as beliefs about reality, but are instead considered characteristics of reality itself. Frequently such ideas appear indisputable, so a part of you that it does not occur to you to speculate about their validity. They become invisible assumptions, but they nevertheless color and form your personal experience.

Monday, March 28, 2011


When I was a kid I made a stain glass. I rest glass on windowsills so the light can shine through and make my space color. The sun has finally emerged from its winter hibernation and all I want to see and feel is light. Without knowing it I have been slowly waking up from my own slumber. I want to make stain glass again. 

Don't want to lose ya...

One of my favorite ways to view the world is to look up at trees from below and see the way the light shines through the branches and leaves. When the sun is so bright you have to close your eyes, but you still see the light.

Sunday, March 27, 2011


And so
I decide to write.
I want to explore.
      But I want time.
Free swings, resting stillness in the continual growth, the more and more of knowing
      that never stops. 
Books, opened, peeled, gnawed, chewed, and spit out before the taste can resonate on

my tongue. My pink tongue.

Taste buds asking what the flavor is, just as it goes...

I want to do so much. And I think I’m falling in love with myself.
I do not want to call to anyone. I no longer need an answer. I don’t want to answer.
I want to be. Finally.

Sitting still. In peace.

My lotus tree of wonder, searching the possibilities of my future.
Dancing. In the circle of moving bodies, chilled, open, and I look up.

I am watching.

Today a leaf fell, three of them scattered. They flew in momentum then jumped-
into blue sky swarmed by warm cloud smoke.
Shaking, rocking, the back and forth-
      Until they smoothed into slow decline

I watched. I saw. I stopped. And I felt the sharp breeze strike me. 


For Jay Bolotin
By James Humphrey

The rain
turning to sleet.
You and I
rolling along
a highway
in Massachusetts
in The Incomparable
'56 Olds
at night- early evening
in "Summer's
light," but night
now, December 6th,
1972, drinking
good scotch.
The rhythms 
of the car, the
engine, the
wheels, the
windshield wipers,
the heater- the
hunger there
in all of the car,
in all of you,
in all of me
if it can be put
into a word/ words
to survive.
The city we're approaching,
a building there, a room
in the building. The chairs
there, the blackness
of the room, the emptiness
there, like a poem
in a closed book. People
on their way there
to that room, people
gathering there
in that room, sitting
on the chairs, smoking,
talking, waiting for you
to sing your songs
and play your guitar,
and me to read my poems.
The night 
around us. The
noises of the sleet
against the car. The
car itself. Us