first meetings

(a re-post/edit)

i didn’t notice
          you there / smiling
a brooklyn,
sunshine over
park slope

bright & watching
you saw me –

hands still clammy
in black knit gloves

          we ate fish tacos
          and drank beers while our
          knees touched

and when we left
to go our separate ways,
you turned back to say
to me half way
down the block

          “come back
          and kiss me
                    you idiot!”

yes i know you can’t drive across the world

i find i make a lot of lists
short lists and longer lists;
of things i’d like to accomplish in
life or just
               get done this weekend;

from finishing that one book,
to changing the light bulbs in the

sometimes it’s bigger things like

               making a chair
               because i really want
               to make a chair, from
                         the mesquite branches i cut last week

or work on the novel i
started in tenth grade

and sometimes it’s even bigger

like living in a lake-side town in
guatemala or
quitting my day job to focus on
my writing

or buying a trailer and driving across
the world

and then sometimes it gets
too big, like discovering a new element
traveling back in time
or building a spaceship
               out of the mesquite branches i cut
               last week

assuming i have enough wood left
after making the chair

you can’t tell me about true love

i read a poem about true love once
with idyllic images of lilies
and sunbeams and other such
nonsense that some poet
               made up while sitting by a lake
               or more likely in his underwear
/ which coincidently is what true love
really looks like;
like 2am conversations
about what picture to hang in the living
room or sharing the last slice
of pizza even if i don’t want to
because true love is keeping quiet when you
reach for the last piece of red velvet
‘cause i know it’s your favorite
and we’ll work if off during
our evening walk; true love
is carrying that damn tricycle three
               blocks in the crook of my arm even though
               he swore he would ride it
and instead now hangs precariously from your shoulders /
i’ve never seen cherubs with arrows or
               strolled majestically through
               a sun-kissed pasture but i have
shared a sink while brushing my teeth
and carried your coffee to the car in
full hands; and held your tired head in my lap,
finger pressing the spot between your eyes
/ and you can’t tell me that
isn’t what true love is

just another love poem: how i want nothing else


i just write love poems
where i say nothings
i think might get the blood
to heat in your face

speak french where all
i know is how to say
that i am the cheese
because i am:
          the cheese

/ and how to say my name
so that you’ll listen
          when i tell you that
          i love you

i see movement in
your laughter

not the way your body
shakes when tears
eek out of your eyes

but how a river fills when it rains
or something more profound
          you see / i’m riffing
and trying to impress with
my imagery

and this is just
another love poem
where i remember how you breath
          asleep except for your open eyes

wondering what
i’m pulling from an empty fridge
in the middle of the night

          saying you slept fine
          and dreamt of me doing
          the exact same thing

we’ll have this conversation
over coffee that tastes like morning
and sunshine

in mugs that say things like “a cup
full of love so you never
run out”
or “just hang in there”
or “brooklyn” because we live
in the desert now
and never forgot where we met

another love poem

because i don’t know how
else to say that i want nothing

except to write dumb nothings
          and read them to you /
          during commercial breaks
in our under ware

while eating the ice cream i bought
for just this occasion


there is a bird perched on my shoulder
a little fluttering thing
so light and full of color that she blends into the summer sky

i am her perch
i am her branch

a solid surface for her to stand
a blank canvas for her droppings
a mosaic on my arms

my bird-dropping arms

i am her statue
i am just me

she sings to me her joyful song
her wings beat against my cheek
and when she flies i watch for her return

this little bird



she glimmers in sunlight
woman to my man
moon to my star
bird to my sky
i am enamored with her presence in the night
a shadow to her wondrous being
i stand on high ground
to avoid being drowned by her rushing waters
yet I drown with a smile
she is a torrent of rain on parched land
waves of heat coming from the earth, my soul in woman’s form
my self in another
and here I am alone in thought
her vision there from across the room, tied to me in silence
we dance in place
so close the air burns
from quiet friction
this sea to my wave
eye to my storm

Study of Who I Am


I am who I love, she who makes me


and I am that little version

of us who

works so hard to be his own person,

while my hands stretch in front of

his teetering advances.

I am the man who knows nothing,

who wanders in place,

who sees himself in others and listens to the wind.

I am what I give to others,

a melody of love and worry,

father to a wondering force of will

partner to she who makes me,


I linger. Remaining where once I would

have been swept away.

Tethered to those who keep me


and full of hope.

I am a whisper in the ear of a lover,

I am strawberry breath and sticky hands in summer,

am sweet laughter on Sunday mornings,

am tears and smiles and lasting embraces.

I am passion, and family, and a day time moon peaking through the clouds

and I am happy

with who I am.



We never dance anymore; dance like wild flowers growing,

like torrents of rain falling,

like honey dripping from wooden spoons into hot tea,

like storm clouds brewing,

like small children spinning in place,

like bees flying from flower to flower with pollen falling from dangling legs,

like wind blown curtains,

like errant blown kisses,

like raucous laughter at a wedding,

like frozen raspberries, and

like dewy grass fields.


We dance like staring lovers,

like old friends smiling,

like small kids holding hands in quiet innocence,

like soft rain in summer,

like warm fresh baked bread,

like willow trees,

like we have nothing to prove,

and no where to be,

and no one else we’d rather dance with.

Remembering a Memory


(A free-write)

Where vision fails, your words remain,

and hold me ever in their breath.

Where wonder lacks, and goals ungained

fall from this frightened mind and depth,

your memory remains engrained

amongst the fiercest thoughts I’ve left.