Under the rug 
where you tried 
to stomp out 
all your cravings 

Slipping in when you 
let the puppy out
darting around the room

Eating leftovers 
with cold coffee 
at the counter

Breathing the body 
you often think you are

As you rise and fall
its way is no comment 
its state is is

Sleeping beside you
laughing beside you

A quiet window 
framing space

This does not include the notebooks and correspondence I burned before leaving the desert: the early years. My good friend had a large fire pit made of cinder blocks in his backyard. I figured it would take about an hour for the flames to eat all that blathering me. It took four. Or six. I can't remember, I didn't write it down. My friend came and went while I sat on the bench under a mesquite tree stirring the fire, tearing pages into smaller bites. Evening turned to night. I felt unmoored, not lighter as expected.

It was dark when I got home and found my front door standing open. Not ajar. Wide open. I lived alone. I didn’t find anyone in the closets or behind the shower curtain or under the bed. Nothing was stolen. It had taken multiple trips bumbling out to the car with the boxes of writings and the notebook towers for the fire. In the rush to get rid of myself, I must have left the door hanging open. This had never happened before and hasn't happened since.

Still, I go on. Spewing out more to digest, dispose of, burn, eject, absorb.

I imagine one day being done.

I touched
the temples of
two blondes today
barely I
noticed
and waited 

And what I 
seemed 
to hear 
was this:
"None of us
(almost none of us)
want a truth
that we can 
never actually have"

It was as if 
they wanted me 
to stop trying  

I won’t

Listening under 
what seems
I move 

to meet them 
over and over 
endlessly
offering 

in silence
what I have seen

I never have a clue 
what you’re going 
to say or how 
you’re going to say it

I jump in
I try to keep up 
I love you! 

This morning you 
read poetry from a book
I didn’t know we had

Was it the verse 
about the dagger 
or the radish 
that brought the tears 
to your eyes?

You had to pause

You know the fire
behind those words

You keep it going
tossing in
world after world

A poem from the previously published You

Thank you for reading What Is It? It’s so nice that you’re here!
Subscribe for free to support my experiments

She believes this until he isn’t allowed back here, into her country of origin. But she is more willing to go to his than stay and bother with the system about it.

She wants to make all their few possessions (two rattling cars, a TV, a stereo) disappear and turn them into money without doing anything. Stuff the money into pockets and backpacks and hop into a more reliable car (purchased with proceeds from the old cars) and drive to pick him up where he’s waiting with his borrowed suitcase and long eyelashes.

She wants to run around the side of the car and give him the driver’s seat and a kiss. She wants to stare and stare out the window, past turquoise painted porches where red plastic chairs sit empty next to dogs under too bright light bulbs.

She wants him to drive and drive until the sun comes up over everything being greener and less dangerous so they can have fights about whether or not he should have stayed out so late, or who should have remembered to get more toothpaste.

As it is now, they argue about why he should not, definitely not walk through the desert to get across to be with her and his two children who live with his ex (all citizens here). Because between him and her-and-the-kids there is: extreme heat and dehydration for three nights. And the people who volunteer and people who are paid to: find and fingerprint him, beat him, threaten him with guns, hold him, and send him back to where he came from. As if he were a problem, a pesky rash, a security concern.

From the archives

I'm out on this limb
to tell you 
about the unreality of the world
in as many ways as I can muster 

My friends passing by
on clouds
drop in to talk shop 

We swap world-creation stories
to make our points
expecting you to know,
clear as the branches you climbed 
to hear us,
that none of it ever happened

We tell our old tales of the lake
to illustrate it was always 
merely a mirage
not worth your while

And dear one
if you're not yet convinced 
please do scramble back down 
to check it out

When you're done 
I'll be here
top of the tree
chatting with my friends

Inspired by Vashishta’s Yoga IV: 49-52

Thank you for reading What Is It? It’s so nice that you’re here!
Subscribe for free to support my experiments

Share

Of course 
you're wary of the world 
and its supposed
enjoyments
Look what happens!

Original piece by

This piece is truly stunning. Thank you for the prompt and Aaron for the powerful image!

This morning we all fell in love 
with the two artists
that live in the moon

There’s the one that chooses hell 
every time
prefers it (claims not to)
revels in despair 
tragedy and torment

Miserably spurned
this one wonders, often, 
is this all there is?
should I leap off this messy rock?

And the other one we fell harder for
who tries not to laugh
and knows exactly what's going on
peeking out from behind 
the grey cloud shroud

At some point this one
will get dressed
tidy the place up
and create 

But for now…  

Thank you for reading What Is It? It’s so nice that you’re here!
Subscribe for free to support my experiments

Share

I go for walks. I passed a house tonight where inside a baby was crying, a tiny newborn cry. I felt myself crying, a small tiny baby inside me matching that cry – the wail of being here. Born into wanting or seeming not to have. I passed other houses where the inhabitants go to bed curled up with their fears and desires and wake up with the same fears and desires. Forty years, fifty years, eighty. Carrying their history with additions piled on that are variations on the theme. I was left, don’t leave me. I was treated badly, don’t treat me badly. I was controlled, don’t control me. I didn’t get, give to me. 

Thank you for reading What Is It? It’s so nice that you’re here!
Subscribe for free to support my experiments

Share

it’s night
the sea is close

i have to be running 
with a small boy in my arms
he has to be wearing glasses  

i have to run to the harbor 
certain people have to be there
if it all lines up we'll make it

the boy is heavy  
i have to say a destination
while jumping off a stone block 
through a window

there are a few seconds in which 
i must do all this 

someone is on the dock
unties the rope
the boat is starting to drift

i jump through 
and say the destination 
it sounds like silence

Thank you for reading What Is It? It’s so nice that you’re here!
Subscribe for free to support my experiments

Share

at first we don’t crack hard enough
to see the full picture
of the imagined life
family ahead of us
children, of course
love, safety, comfort
good books, blue skies 
and happy trees
but crack a bit more 
and what do we find
but truth
behind the smiley faced facade
waiting to be picked up 
lived seen and known
dark void 
empty night
those stubborn pieces 
that won’t go back where they belong
lonely for days, months, years
we break again
puffy clouds crash from the sky
the hills washed in shadowy dread
we vomit from the open car door
and scratch our way out of the dream
the gift of that first glimpse
revealing the way

This is the first draft of what became Surrender for a recent Surreal Saturday prompt from , on “The Sky Is Falling” by Joseph Renda Jr.

Sometimes I over-edit… looking back, I liked this enough to share it with you the way it first arrived :)

“The Sky Is Falling” by Joseph Renda Jr.

Thank you for reading What Is It? It’s so nice that you’re here!
Subscribe for free to support my experiments

Share

“Flying Lesson (Dusk)” by Laura Catherwood

I love seeing you there
eating your avocado with a spoon

It's so much better than 
wondering what you're up to
and if you're getting enough to eat

I'd rather be together 
when you take off
when you leave the ground
to try travel by air

It's so much better than 
hearing about it later 

I'd much rather say welcome to my world 
than yes, that sounds like how it feels

Image: “Flying Lesson (Dusk)” by Laura Catherwood

Thank you to for the Surreal Saturdays prompt!

Thank you for reading What Is It? It’s so nice that you’re here!
Subscribe for free to support my experiments

Share

A hanger is a helpful prop
turns out, for demonstration
When you step into the room
I use it to tap the wall
a few times quickly 
then do the same 
to the side of my head
saying, I can't tell 
if this is me or this is me
Do you know what I mean? 

Yes, you say, yes I do

We smile at each other
I shrug and go back 
to hanging up your shirts
feeling happy for them
that they get to be so close to you

Thank you for reading What Is It? It’s so nice that you’re here!
Subscribe for free to support my experiments

Share

Looks like the algo thinks I should be interested in aliens. Of course, they exist. And anyway, aren't we alien enough to ourselves? (Unless and until we decide not to be). We never know what feeling will hit us next. Or the next thought. Wait to see... yep, it's mundane. I should pack that other pair of sandals for my trip. And there was something else I didn't want to forget... I should remind myself. Who reminds who(whom)? Isn't it odd?  

Why do I create a world in which I now scramble to keep up? The To-do List, packing list, honey dos. I assign the tasks. I check, check, check. What a bizarre little planet!

The woman at the nail shop wears a black T-shirt with a white cartoony gravestone that says “rest easy” on her ample bosom. Do we have to wait to rest? Is it rest simply when (or because) the body stops? I am resolved to rest while living, even amidst the to-dos. Even now. Maybe I could just put my head on her macabre chest and take a nap. I want to ask her what the shirt means but I have to take a phonecall. I'll either live with the mystery or go back another time to ask. I'll say, the other day you were wearing a shirt... and she'll say, oh yeah, that's a band or oh, that's the t-shirt from my grandpa's funeral (which seems very American) and I'll offer condolences. 

And isn't it strange how fat the body can get? Skin just quietly stretches to cope with what's going on. It's a boundary that doesn't have good boundaries, can't say no. I'm only saying it this way because boundaries are another thing the algo recommends. So they're top of mind – packed in there with the sandals and aliens and helpful tips, rolled up so maybe they won't wrinkle as much. 

Thank you for reading What Is It? It’s so nice that you’re here!
Subscribe for free to support my experiments

Share

This afternoon, curled up with the pup, I put my eyes by his eyes to look out the window from his spot. He seemed happy for me to see it. Existence. A bit of movement. We stayed there a long time. Breathing, maybe dozing. A long time? I don’t know, really, what that means. He smells like grass and fresh baked bread. His little face is fluffy and his expression is serious. About the view, I assume. About this matter of existence itself.

Thank you for reading What Is It? It’s so nice that you’re here!
Subscribe for free to support my experiments

Subscribe now

Share

night under ocotillo
beside the nopal 
i puff a cigarette 
and hear the neighbors 
call each other awful names
tires screech along the street

we've been that kind of car 
one wrong turn and i'll lose 
you for good

i watch saguaro silhouettes 
shift in shadow and breeze
feeling very small
and empty of fight
with you staying away for now

when i climb back in
to the solitary room
the windowsill hits my hip
on the place you always kiss

i breathe deeply inside the house
where dear friends 
leave the lights on for me

and under the sadness i feel joy

Image by me, 2012

Share

Thank you for reading What Is It? It’s so nice that you’re here!
Subscribe for free to support my experiments

At first we can’t see the world
of sky blue hopes
and bright green promises

We expect love, safety, comfort
good books and happy trees
children, eventually, of course

But with a crack from beyond
we glimpse 
the smiley-faced facade

Truth keeps dawning in pieces 
waiting to be picked up 
Dark void, empty nights
loneliness, regret

We may try to manage 
even put the pieces back
Cutting our hands 
to unsee what we've seen

Still, the knowing grows

Puffy clouds crash from the sky
hills are slowly washed in shadow

Until we vomit our doubt
and turn to face 
the most compelling element 
in this narrow scene

The other side beckons 
and now we pray
trusting the glimpse is the way

Image: “The Sky Is Falling” by Joseph Renda Jr.

Thank you to for the Surreal Saturdays prompt!

Thank you for reading What Is It? It’s so nice that you’re here!
Subscribe for free to support my experiments

Share

See her belly wobble in the evening air 
pleased and without a care

Searing truth of her shape and size
oblivious to human demise 

Seers warned of the inevitable fall
of the last and final strip mall

Sears commerce quiet and still 
of peace she may have her fill 

Image: "Black Monday" by Michael Kerbow, oil on canvas, 2019.

Thank you to for the Surreal Saturdays prompt!

A little play on words

Thank you for reading What Is It? It’s so nice that you’re here!
Subscribe for free to support my experiments

Share

I am pasting poetry on the walls 
  of our imaginary house
You haven’t noticed yet

I didn’t fall in love with you

We went to Australia
Fought for the first 
  sixteen days of our journey

Split up

By the time I got to the coast
  you were already there
    trying not to cross 
      the story in the sand
        but you couldn’t help yourself

I understand

In order to talk about what didn't happen
  you have to go to the beginning
    where it all never started

Thank you for reading What Is It?
It so nice that you’re here.
Subscribe for free to support my experiments :)