How many times have these fingers curled, these knuckles birthed as mountains? How many times have these fingers pointed?

accusing, explanatory, directionally.

These hands.

Holding a lover and letting them go. Lifting a friend to the sun, climbing this soul to the clouds.

I can feel the blood pulse underneath my skin as I rest my hand on this book.

A life-breathing pause.

skills, failures, love, regrets…

These hands.

Thank You

the chase

“It’s not a race!”

I shout.

The rest are already

half their size.

”guys, wait!”

I try

to catch up.

My chest is begging.

As the last

one turns the last

corner,

I am alone.

’maybe we should turn back’

one inner voice,

’I can see us finishing!’

another.

With a belly breath in

I open my neck.

I watch the steam

engine transcend the open sky.

And so, the inner chase begins.

whisper

my ears have an on/off switch,

i am not deaf, no implants.

a choice, subconscious or not,

a choice.

like a toothpick in a bowl of set jello,

visible and available,

stuck and surrounded

by nothing that matters, nothing that prepares.

the clouds share their

traveling stories as they pass through

one another.

so my body longs to whisper.

it isn’t until I look up,

look up!

that I can hear

their lore.

a cloud’s dreams, and so:

my destiny.

Met an older man today.

Gray in his beard, dark wavy hair.

Never fixed or removed his cocked 

sunglasses.

The rocking motion

of our conversation was familiar

to a worn welcome mat.

Old emotions started peaking 

their beautiful buds 

from behind the weeds.

Old weeds, browns and greens, not my favorite types... though some were chosen.

As my eyes flicked between chapters,

I could re-live

{re-imagine with no use

of actual imagination}

my history.

We talked of music, we talked of technique, we talked of trades and purchases—an old Supro head.  

We talked of sunflower seeds on pizza and the siding of an old house that yearns for a fresh new coat.

The garage became an external storage unit for hope and hope-nots.


As the crescendo past, the lights still low allowing the audience one last peak at excellence, he pulled me close, wrapped a long-time-coming around me and said, “I love you... you know that right?  I love you.”


As we stood there, 

the sound of the central fountain

became an ocean wave—both sound and ride.


Something that takes 14 years

to destroy can take 9 words to build.


It hasn’t left my mind.

This moment.


I can still taste the saltiness 

and still smell the paint.

I can still hear the shake of the house

from the aching power of 2 Twin-Reverbs, the call, the shout, the chorus of his heart.

I can still see his dark goatee and his teaching stance.  


Eric Clapton.

Led Zeppelin.

The Blues.


It was just a few years, but this older man is still my youth.

this fulness

Sitting outside this morning watching the trees, wind, birds and the bees of everything.

I want to touch everything.

I want to do everything.

A water balloon filled to it’s full capacity that it may burst—like a dirty glass under a running faucet, billowing over in the kitchen sink.

this fullness.

nwod wols

The sticky inhale of Southern Pine,
another taste of Oak.  
Mulch and rock 
under my sandals.

And now a bar-top in air conditioning.
Ice water delivered.
The glass is a window—
a car in the rain.

Food 
delivered.

I feel a constant tunneling,
forcing me to turn down 
whatever it is the dial is connected to.

Trying to slow down is not slowing down.

I need to slow down.