I Like These Towers Better

I am safe. 

It is only in the morning. Every 9/11. I lose myself in a striking memory of that day and days following. I completely regress to an otherworldly scar inside myself where a different human being was terrified. Inside that memory, I shatter like the towers and stop existing. There is nothing for a few seconds. Always, I am alone when this commemorative terror strikes. It is not something I can capture for you.

Oh Men

Among life's Josephines there is the Josephine who Napoleon divorced out of a desperate need to produce blood offspring. Then she turned to gardening & botany while Napoleon died saying Josephine with his last breath.

Inspired by a print shop project: Naropa Open Post, Summer Writing Program 2011

Born Again and Again and Again

Pining always, not always certain what it is I miss, I acquired a free bike from Naropa’s Bike Fleet.

First, "Antonio’s" gears cracked in motion and the tire flattened over night, then the bike master popped the rear tire on hot pink "Her-cules," the single-shift, age-old, second choice. Out of the misfit bike rubble, beamed sturdy and shock-absorbent, "Mushroom Stew," aka. my new, best friend.

I rode Mushroom Stew into the mountain—praised aquamarine skies, praised air, praised the song of the creek. I rolled my wheels along the creek and was born again.

Ah, Spring!

New season New sense of moon New found heart New old self New earthquake New manmade disaster New war Same prayer

The Path

Room With a View

"This is what you shall do..."

"This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to everyone that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told in school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body." -Walt Whitman from Preface to Leaves of Grass