My emotional makeup is running.
fushia-colored need blossoms falsely on my cheeks
while neon strikes of pencil glow in
a most unfavorable way
on my eyes and lining my lips
I am drooling down my chin,
which is caving.
The more I paint my outside
the more my inside suffers,
The more
pain the more paint,
it seems.
My emotional makeup is running but
I never looked better than after I’ve
washed my face.
Still, every morning
I paint-by-numbers
in an attempt to be
seen and to
be hidden.

The Hole

The hole inside of you does exist
but it is a vessel for goodness and care
not a dumping ground for excuses and addictions

“What are you trying to forget?” I once asked a
man who drank too much (according to me, mind you)

“What? Me? Nothing.”


The hole inside of you may be there
it’s true
Maybe blasted open in youth, a big
gaping hole of neglect and rejection
or maybe you’ve been carving away at it
for decades, an attempt to become a real
Rockstar–edgy and tortured

The hole inside of you does exist
I’m sorry I ever said it didn’t
but you turn that hole upon its head
and it is a vessel for goodness and care
not a dumping ground for excuses and addictions
it’s all in how we look at the cavern
light it up and it’s not so bad after all
not so bottomless–albeit there

Sparkle and Boom

I am uncontrollably contained
unordinarily incomprehensible
it’s a day off too long coming.

I notice the colored expessions
stone-still faces make when
no longer twisting to impress, seduce
ugly places turn uglier and pretty places too
none of it is as pretty as we pay for,
paint for
but somehow that’s beautiful too,
a brain massage and you’re on
your own, you begin to let go:
we are all: bark on a tree
we are all: the back of a leaf
we are all: noses too “big” for our faces
we are all: corndogs in and out
we are all: girlfriends, boyfriends, somebody’s bearded lover.
we are all: tinkering with stones and making music
we are all: hardworking people on our day off
we are all: from Anytown, USA
we are all: struggling
we are all: soaring
we are all: working for somebody, but not tonight
we are all: geniuses with gummed lips
we are all: loose lipped with nothing new to say
we are all: following our day dream
we are all: lit by the mothering moon within us
we are all: nothing without it
we are all: needing to be held
we are all: diving to save the child
we are all: overflowing and down to the last drop
we are all: everything to offer and nothing special
we are all: loose with it
we are all: scared and lonely
You pay attention and things
start to fall apart and begin again
my echo
my shadow
and me
we are all: spectacle.
sparkle vile.


In real life
sticky black ink
pools at the tip
of my writing pen
it bleeds onto my
fingernail–the ugly one that
was slammed in the front door
I lick my fingernail, wipe
it on my sleeve but the
ink stays, it cannot
be deleted–
which almost
surprises me.

I stare at the page.
my handwriting is that
of a harried, unbalanced person
my handwriting is not feminine
it does not stand up strait but bows
and curls with the weather, with mood
I hate it. I wish my words could be as
pretty as type, as pretty as font.

In moments of weakness and disillusion I
desire — foolishly — to filter our life.
perfectly symmetrical
handwritten pages of
original thought.
this might bring me some joy,
create some illusion of order.

How can I work with ugly and imperfect?
I mean, the goal now is that nothing
is ugly and imperfect: nothing should be
not with the tools we have today
Not our penmanship or our thoughts,
not our friends or our parties and
most importantly: not our faces
oh heavens no, not our faces.

Funny how in our pajamas,
slack jawed and scratching
here and there,
breathing heavily
through garlicked tongue,
we click and primp — determined
to camouflage our shortcomings
(as if nobody knows they’re there)
but in reality when we up and walk
from the computer: we are no better off
than when we sat down

I cannot help but wonder where
we’ll end up

How deep the divide of fantasy
and reality
will widen

IRL we are worse for the wear,
evolving, stupidly
toward disillusionment
passing it off as enlightenment.

I cannot help but wonder where
we’ll end up

How deep the divide of fantasy
and reality
will widen


A windchime
shutters to life.
Little had I thought
of a windchimes need
for chaos and swirl.
“Be the windchime”
I realize
as practice closes
and in perfect timing I
am set to step into Now,
despite the unpredictable
circumstances and
those pushing undercurrents,
life’s unavoidable buoys and lifts,
life’s twisting gates,
opening and closing
with the weather,
with storm
“Be the windchime”
I realize
Make sweet sounds
in the turbulence
of your own life
not for others this time,
but for you

You are the windchime