and it’s just right. just barreling down te middle jst touching you and tasting you and making you a part of its particles of the participle of now. its just everything. you are the greatest piece of me ad the only thing that will be left when the world comes crashing down in splinters and cells. the universe has been waiting for us. the universe has been crafting carefully colored trajectories of souls…in circles and in seething webs and arrows of time.

thunder and deep pressure is echoing across our night sky. deep chasms of corroded life. deep wonder is ringing through the air tonight. deep powers deep lungs, deep dastardly love that will never be forsaken, never be released, always be held in two tiny fingers.

this means forever.

All this has happened before and all this will happen again. Anytime, anyplace. I’ve been in this house before. I’ve felt the keys, held the knobs, and slid my fingers down the spine of this swollen and bubbling house. I watched my whole life slide out of view here. I cried when my mother cut my hair with a pair of dull scissors. I read pages and pages of the Harry Potter in any given arrangement of sounds and vowels. And now I know that story.


casey brehm- asked me to go to concert, they’re going to concert on last night, we listened to that as we drove here “my kids grew up on your music”

katie baker was here- katie baker contacted me

i painted that painting here- then gave it to ms. ohm

I said goodbye to bobby lang here, and all those kids graduating…conor choi was here…and josh and the man who came to dinner cast party 


I remember the morning we got here. Swollen with sadness, exhaustion and drenched in the sweat of our old house we came bumbling through the doors with our heads weary with wheezing old walls and the paper cuts of cutting ties. 


I’m not sure if I ever quite knew I was here until I was gone. I’ll always be gone, and iLL ALWAYS BE HERE AND i’LL ALWAYS BE WRITING IN THE DEEP HOURS OF THE NIGHT TRYING TO MAKE CONSCIOUS THAT WHICH IS INVISIBLE, THAT WHICH HAS NO SHEILDS BUT KEEPS RUNNING AND RUNNING AND KNOWING ME IN A WAY THAT ONLY i COULD NEVER KNOW but somehow reaches for and away and towards at all times. I am always reaching towards this house…towards the objective house. Towards that magical place where something is held, where family is somehow divinely innate. And i’ll keep painting myself into the edges of trees, dancing on the tops of stars and swallowing night skies as they land over green pathways of plants. I’ll be here and i’ll be there and maybe life just keeps trying to teach me that nothing ends. Nothing ever ends. the world is infinite and we spin out in circles within circles. Ever neverending and always infinite and unsee-able. i will only ever be able to see out of my own slimey eyelids. just the briefest glimmer of what the goddess will let me see. Just showing me just enough to make me belief. And to let that belief be enough for the universe to churn on. Just the words “I Believe”…in the very idea of faith…in the sheer faith that love exists. that anything exists. that anything is real. that everything is a mystery. that the mystery surrounds and sustains, types through my fingers, breathes through my lungs, taps through my torturous tongue that still insists on forming sensible words after all these years. after all these years. after all these years. again. 

Circles within circles.




The Healing House

‘And the sea in the mirror, or the valley in the mirror, were in once sense just the same as the real ones: yet at the same time they were somehow different- deeper, more wonderful, more like places in a story: in a story you have never heard but very much want to know. The difference between the old Narnia and the new Narnia was like that. The new one was a deeper country: every rock and flower and blade of grass looked as if it meant more. I can’t describe it any better than that: if you ever get there, you will know what I mean.”


-C.S. Lewis, The Last Battle 

And the world will carry you it seems, always and endlessly, past the silver streaks of moon, into the glorious birthdy of dawn that arises each and every moment. And each and every moment that rises up in the glow of the sun seems to be the same one, carefully concorted and cleverly disguised in a thousand different shapes and sizes but I see myself here and I see myself everywhere and I know that I am roots. I am bark and I am scratching the surface of the sky with my great cherry wings of clouds. I feel the mid morning glow of asphalt, tar and car horns, sliding past the birdsong and the moss mildew. Paint drips from my drooping fingers and I always never forget that energy begets energy. Light begets light. Love begets whole realms of undiscovered paths. My path keeps getting simpler and simpler and sweeter and more sacred. Every day is full of June and this sacred month carries with it the tune of something swollen and naked. Like barely awake flowers of morning, like grimacing golden teeth of grass. 


The end will never come, just a great big breath and a bite off the eastern shoreline. No more questions, no more queries no more confining bars and rattles ofclothes upon our fire breathings skin. We will remember. We will let go. We will just wade out of our big sacks of skin and skim the new sky for remnants of all we were holding on to. We will let go. We will sink. Melt right through our toes into the ashes…we will fertilize our own foundations and rivers of muddy moss and buds of being broken open will devour all our delicate buildings- the ones we built to shape the light as it morphs through window panes. Maybe we built it all up just to let it dissolve.


I seem to write a lot about the end of the world these days. I seem to think about death a lot these days. I seem to think I’m heading towards my death. No, no, I musn’t think this way…I’m heading towards my LIFE. The true life- Plato, Plato, it’s all in Plato. 

after the world and before the end

there is a sadness, a madness, a collective dream wrapping its raging fingernails against the sideof the steam engine, the streams of running soldier thoughts, and i will be there i will hold the hand of the hurricane i will walk windly


But there are still words. There are words coming and going like boxes of old carelessnesses. There are shoestrings and corners to this world and I have dreams. I have dreams that people will awaken to the absolute glory of being alive, of being formed. That people will listen on street corners to extensive rhythms of poetry being shouted, squealed and screamed at all volumes. I have dreams that we will pray modestly and momentously to the trees that surround and sustain us, that the ocean will double back its breath and open its mouth wide enough to let us all in. That we will float through the surface of the sea all the way to the next world, the world just beyond us, before us and between us. I spend all of my time forcing my mind into enough creative force that I might just burst through my neurons into a state of newness so palpable that it will create a bubble…that bubble will form itself deliciously over the course of my life and someone will see it- not so that I can be seen, but so that it will be seen. i want to make art for the sake of art…so that art itself can be born, can be birthed into existence. I want to give birth. I want to be a mother to beautiful things- to a lifetime of exquisite love, to children that gulp in breaths of magic air and run free and unguarded against the western wind. I want to give birth to ideas so that the collective unconscious of the world may have fresh food to gobble up and spit out. I want to give birth to collections of colors splayed across canvas so that the goddess of color and light might be satiated. So that colors themselves might play. I want to slam words up against each other, so they can reacquaint themselves with 


And at the end of the day I want to know that I know nothing.


My life’s dream is that I may one day have enough space and money to spend my time doing the things i love and giving that love back to the world. That I might be satiated enough with the ineffable miracle of existing and that that might be enough. That somehow, through the existence of my life, I can show someone that that is enough as well. That this is enough, watching the clouds grow glorious, grey and sparkled with whiskers of white over this cracked and peeling porch in New Jersey is enough. At the end of the world, I want to be covered in paint and mud, filled with muscles and someone else’s saliva, holding the hand of someone I love and staring up at the golden crusted sky shouting THANK YOU. It’s enough. It’s always enough. 


And I never want to control this beast, this burden of being creative. I never want to know who is turning the wheels or how many buttons I have to press to get myself working again. I want to praise this mystery of manifestation, know my body, and know that it is an endless equation far beyond my brief eternity.


I do have things to say. I have things to shout, to scream and to whistle…but I have no audience. No one wants to hear my stories, no one wants to know my dreams…and that is not sad…for now, at this moment…it is liberating. I don’t have to change the world, I don’t have to revolutionize. The world has taken the keys from me and knows how to drive far faster than I could dream. I just have to sit and enjoy the ride. I just have to hold on and pray that I don’t fall off this speeding bullet train. I just have to listen to the birds sing lost somewhere on the Eastern coast of this continent. 


I want to play. Life is play. 

Let’s go.

constant yes filling constant fearlessness just boxes of bones and im always revolving always evoling enever reaching the highest peak the darkest ladder always waitinf ro words to enfold me, wrap me up  in their twisted golden fins and float me out past the mermaids in my mind. past the passing participle of what is present and inside the brunign light of what is lifted, liquid and love beyond lanugage. there i s a place, there  is a sounds beyond race there is a trik living inside my truth. this is how long it takes to get from here to there.

So here’s the truth. I love life. I love sitting inside my feet waiting for my skin to curl back into my nails. I love nailing my eyes upon the graceful grazing harmony of the harpsicord of height and depth and width and wisdom. I love trees and their tender skins all laced with woven wrinkles and this untouchable trust in the ground to always root themselves deeper than they could ever dare to.

Sometimes my entire body feels like a lacework, patchwork quilt of quarks, questions and condundrums. All the ambient air loaded with recycled words and remnants of lingering laughter hit my body like a building of broken answers and twist themselves into every curl and crack on my connective tissue. My muscles move like manifestations of mirrors and my mouth grabs hold of any available air and gulps. Gulps gulps, gives, forgives and forges ahead. A head, a head, my kingdom for my brain back. For the back of my brain to bring me back to life. To living in anyway that resembles a resonance of rebirth. Rebirth. I’m always after rebirth it seems. It seems it seems I have too many seams to sow up. I’ll be splinter-celled and stitched up heartsoul for as long as this little life of mine lasts. Lasts. Last but not least, let’s at least let our hearts pound. POUND. Hounding and impounding and measuring like goblets full of rain. Like slobbery wide arms of the golden tongue of taste.


Taste. Erase and race your heart back to the essence of love.

I am a student of this mildly messy universe of soul, wonder and wide webs of open hands and arms reaching, teaching and releasing.

oh please let this day dissolve me. let these words be a prayer to the great bucket of air that surrounds me- hear me and hunger for me. Let me hunger for nothing more and nothing less than a bottle of the finest angel air that is sliding up and down the spine of these leaves…leaves answers and envelopes in ancient tongues, in stories and in sounds.

How long did it take to redestroy all the things that got stuck in my brain arteries like clogged globs of butter and insecurity? Who ever demanded that writing be one thing or mean one thing or that we should tie up words, fit them into tiny boxes and reprint them in bland black and white to everyone that never wants to hear anything more than the pitter patter in the back of their own brainstem? How long has it taken my fingers to find themselves again and who is to blame? What institution can I point my waggly fist at? Where is the system and how can i chew on a bit of its heels?

It appears the mystery continues. The mystery unfolds. The back porch still waits, the forefront of my mind is now licked and calloused and healing as ever and somehow all these years have gone by, all these moments of words and word fumbles have flickered through my like a canister of open lights and I missed them. I let days drip through my like ceiling wax and dregs of old coffee. I let a year, or a series of many moons and months, drag me down into its tidal wave and roll me off its tongue. I lost my language, my lust for listening, my trust in the trees and my tiny golden orb of a heart that sat right inside my chest writing out pagefuls of fistfuls of antonyms for answers.

I don’t have an answer. I don’t know why it happened or how it happened but I do know that art can no longer be about the means to an end. Art cannot be the smothering of slimy old hands on a typewriter and art cannot be about forcing a pair of pens and pencils onto a slab of white concrete paper. Art is color and form and disasterous attempts to be alive. Art is circular and sedate, sunny and swelling. Art has desire and art has mind. Art sits where it wants to and says no even when it doesn’t have to. Art fills up the margins of mountains of paperwork and paper-mache hearts and paper doll dreams and “paper or plastic” regimes. Art swallows me whole and asks me for seconds. Art traces time not in seconds, or minute munches of minutes but in whole blasphemous birthdays of birth. Girth-days of giving. Great giant wheels of hunger for the horror of being fully alive. Art is a monster staring me in the face, waking me up in the morning to drag me around by the base of my cells, to attack me from all sides with the sweet sound of senselessness. Art wants to find me, wants to give me back my sense of sensing. Art wants to taste me with its big chaos mouth, chew me with its meaning molars and spill soul saliva all down the front of my dress. And I’ve got no mop, no broom, no handkerchief or hands for holding anything but a prayer that she will never release me.

Is the moon going to rip me from my skin…suck sweetly on the rind of my rolling brain fever…spit me back out in parcels and in protective goggles? Is the earth going to eagerly eek through my utterances, gather up my golden flames and send me swirling into the sea? Is the water going to drench me in soft swirling dregs of morning mystery? I keep asking I keep asking I keep begging for an answer but all the comes is the answering machine, the wind and a little drip of rain water coming from somewhere behind me.

And so I trod.

If it has to be anything, at least let me die inside of a poem.

this is the place.
the walls adorned with me and you and bits of all the things i knew. the place where i grew, where i sift through my skin and bones in a cubicle made for claiming. in a dressing gown made for old empty dreamcatchers, soft silver linings, delicately folded photographs gathering dust and dreams in the corner, cobwebs of circumstance and all the pomp and prestige of proposing that i am still here. i still inhabit this uninhibited hibernation cove. this is the place for placing my memories all around the edges of my elastic earring heart. let me let go of time. let me let flow the rhyme, the movement and the moment. 


shh shh- silence the big balls of broken open meaningcatchers
let me listen to the sound of dust mites collecting what i have already given away.



Sometimes I feel weightless, like all my skin dissolvies into merely cells solves themselves and sorting themselves by name and color and I am peaceful, dissolving into the clouds, the trees, the secret hues of the sky and the subtle blue news of the lapping lake. I sift and slide right through my soul, into the sound of that lake. Watery and weird I wobble out, hands and feet, no head, no legs, just torso and the torture of not being able to be fully anywhere- seemingly stretched like piles of perched skin atop everything floating future. I become the land, the sea and all the silver harmonies between and above. I believe in the bottomless boat of brilliant hues of color. I believe in color corroding between my ears, eyes, heart and soul. The heat of healing and the art of kneeling before the beyond that beckons at every branched benchmark of belonging. I believe in time and this slow and effortless journey from myself to the great self that surrounds and sustains. I believe in this strange and wonderful journey, the jolting confusion that exists in my mind and the desolate destruction I have done to myeslf by not expressing it fully. I’ve lost so many words, but now is the time. Now is the time to reclaim my beaty and to set aside my sadness and swim back into the wide ocean of edgeless and unending echoes from the Majestic Mystery that hums its music from the horizon. This is now.