alphabet soup

Sometimes reading just one sentence can unclog the blockage in someone's heart. A lot of writing is just looking for the right combination of letters and spaces and commas and breaths----rummaging through life's alphabet soup and digging up the perfect sentence for you. Le mot juste.

Averted eyes

I didn’t look back at you
I wasn’t being cross

It’s just—

i knew a guy that went a year without smoking
Until he was charmed once more

by a camel’s kiss of death

So I guess I didn’t look at you
Because we know how old habits can be

A storm never stays

A storm once visited these parts
And splashed bits of itself everywhere

It ran down your fingers
It dripped off your nose

The puddles still dried
But left the stars in your eyes rearranged

A storm never stays
But leaves more than wetness behind


Lung capacity

Two voices
Ride in the air
Hand in hand

In perfect harmony,
One and one
Eclipse their sum

But it lasts
Only as long
As a breath


Ice trophy

Might you be an avalanche
Mistaken for the tumble
Of something less sinister?

I used to fear the waves,
The ocean churning me
With enigmatic whims

But sea-shattered shells wash ashore
While the rolling snow swallows whole;
I guess an avalanche keeps its prey

(No one else has found the pieces you took)


Today feels funny


Kissing requires
Thirty-four facial muscles.
Some say the most crucial
of which is
the orbicularis oris,
because it is used

to pucker
the lips.

Thirty-four muscles.
Just enough to make
that extra one
I keep between my lungs
s w e l l
and push the air out


Surnames and origins

Your Radiance travels
across the room,
over the clinking forks on dinner bowls,
past each four legged obstruction,
and above the jazz of table conversation,
just to dim the incandescent bulbs overhead
by way of comparison to the embers you house in your eyes

for now, his thick skull is pointed elsewhere
and yet his eye still turns in the socket,
defiantly towards home,
magnetized by sovereignty of physics
like a compass pointing to its favorite direction
but more like a boy staring into your gorgeous burning sunlight
and searing the purple-orange blots into his retina

at night his eye is shut,
closed like a wilted flower
that once had water to shed
and behind his eyelid
he can see the after images of
the time you both stayed up late holding hands and fiddling with pine cones
sharing the breath between your lips

A compass pointing home:
Your English surname, derived from the Norman Hamon (from the Germanic haim), sings this sentiment more perfectly than melody ever will
and each time it is spoken
it carries the same char of
your glow,
and his wild eye reaches for the north once more


observed bodies
dancing playfully in a
garden of stars
and called it

I wonder
which physicist
decided that we too should
twinkle in this way
and called it


oxygen and carbon dioxide

she and the tree
met in the usual spot
to perform an exchange of gifts
she reached into her lungs (next to her heart)
and pushed her offering
through her puckered lips

could you breathe for me?
I’ll breathe for you

then seasons changed
so she took her leave
and winter took the rest of them
but she and the tree
continue their exchange
even when they are apart

do you still breathe for me?
I’ll breathe for you


How are you?

Have I ever told you how much I absolutely adore that question?

I declare it to be the very quintessence of your spirit (who knew something so rich and so precious could be held by three seemingly vacant words?)

That question is your hand, reaching out with such subtle tenderness that many may miss the gesture towards their heart.

That phrase seems to emit a warmth in your eyes like spotlights…

acknowledging the boggling wealth of individual experiences populating even the smallest section of town ( I had a dream we looked at an airplane under God’s star splashed field and got dizzy imagining personalized stories for each passenger)…

by inviting a small moment of self reflection amongst a cacophony of vacuous place holders for thought.

I guess we are all main characters in at least one chapter of any book, written and unwritten,

and you are an avid reader of human tales of all shapes, which I will always love about you.

So I think that’s pretty neat.