i’ve lost you again

life swells and joys
bongo beats
new and fresh each day

then a sudden swish
a breath of hothouse air
and i’m breathless

a heartbeat of memory
and my heartaches

a moment of you
far back from some highway
way back in time

and i’m lost in your loss
all sounds melancholy
all visions blur

a call from you
and i’m thrown into pain
i’ve lost you again

(amazing how loss can be renewed)
sept 15, 2012



My whole life’s in front of me

new year

(post birthday thoughts)

poem emerges

my whole life’s in front of me

Today, August 31st, 2:29 PM

my whole life
all of it
lies from here onward
from this moment of tears that well up
from lost birthdays
badly timed applause
undeserved reprimands mostly from myself
all of it, and more lies beyond this current second
an exhale and it’s already here
waiting for instructions
open at this end
open wider, let it all pour out!
large broad movements
fill the space
add water and stir
whirl and sing

directions in voice and ink
glued and tattooed to DNA
what choice do i have?

how can i be
anything else than my table of contents
from preface to afterword
from shiny cover to author pic

as thoughts become things
and mind becomes honed
the blank page plays a coda

all about to unfurl
with the wrist-ful snap of a fan
and a zenlike glance of a dancer

it’s all in front of me
my whole life
painted and indexed
about to crumble and sigh
as the rolling pin of impatience
slaps together a new dough
waiting for my knowing nod

the skills of years
rusty as they are
step into the future

After reading What We Can’t Forgive

What We Can't Forgive, Martina Newberry

After reading What We Can’t Forgive, i find myself deeply emerged in swamplands of feelings. The connections made in poetry are often connections that work faster than words have a right to do. And here i am, after reading, and quite helpless to ignore music that happens to seep into my soundscape, or even dismiss the fact that it, too, is eerily in key with the poems I’ve just read.

What I Can’t Forgive is, you see, written by Martina Newberry, and if you know her work, there’s no real reason for me to elaborate. But if you haven’t read her, then maybe i should mention that she pulls traditional associations and re-wires them to new brain cells and body pulses. New synapses at work. And new synapses have huge quantities of energy that all seem to resonate at once.

Maybe here’s a good place to post one of her pieces. Like this one for example, At Night



All day,

I thought of the city,

of freeways and

overpasses and

tunnels long enough

that you might be afraid

there is no end to them.

When late afternoon came,

it came with

a  pissy attitude and

solar temper.

I closed my eyes

tight like gritted teeth.

Every night we are

newly dead and

every morning, newly born.

That alone should make me happy, but it doesn’t.

What does?

The thought of my good bed,

My dreams of concrete clouds,

Air that smells like old clothes,

The eccentric lamplight on sputtering streets,

The ominous openings of alleys.

Now it’s late.

My neighbor’s vodka


has numbed my tongue

but not my heart

which is holding a grudge.

Perhaps I should meditate.

Or take drugs.

The choice between Shiva and Seroquel

is not always a wise one.

Tonight may be one of those nights

when sleep is a joke I tell myself.

Tonight may be one of those nights

when holding on

to the mattress

is as close as I’ll ever get

to Nirvana.


“When late afternoon came, it came with a pissy attitude…” – you know what that is. Don’t we all know that pissy attitude that shows up, uninvited, and if we’re good hosts, we let it stay.

So, that’s my mind, right now – lost to focus on anything else but What We Can’t Forgive, Martina Newberry. Here it is on amazon.

And now i’m off to investigate this late afternoon and how attitudes come and go.

mask therapy

Open the brain and allow stream of consciousness to pour out onto a page.

This is in some circles considered to be channeling. Channeling ideas and connections from a zone other than the immediate lexicon of daily living.

A mask or no mask? Opened or closed. One sits in a chair on another plane and allows words to pump through. What comes out is either pure mystery or utter clarity. Allow it to occur and the poet is richer.

Self-portrait or non-self portrait. Enjoy the process.

Self portrait, Graham Seidman

Brilliant thoughts to open morning mind

i awake, i drink some coffee, i write a morning haiku and then i open my mind to scan what’s happened during the night.

Ready for the day, the best thing I can do is read someone brilliant, listen to a wise voice on audio, or be swept away by exceptional thoughts.

This morning, it was Martina Newberry’s ‘Guerrilla Whining’ – a poem that resonates on so many levels including the soundwaves themselves of a poet who reads from her soul to mine – intellectually, emotionally and with pointed honesty.

I have to include the entire video clip, but Guerrilla Whining is at: 6:33. Listen if you will.