Once a day

Once every day we do something
a shift of the hip
a blink of an eye
and then we recover
and go back to the beginning.

We rise
and stretch ourselves
put on an outfit
and then move in such a way
once everyday.

Capturing

You captured me
like a photo Polaroid
in your white borders.

With a short
a cropped moment
you caught me
unbeknownst.

Camera eyes
snapped me up
and now I am a picture
a narrative in black and white

New Day

Someone had a title of a Sun Always Rises
The name I cannot remember.

I can remember the cover
and the feel of the pages.
I remember the way the title made me think
as the sun always rises
then so do we
each day
differently
but still the same
same face
same eyes
same hands the grab the alarm clock
pushes you out of bed
butters toast
and combs hair.

That title is one to remember
one that makes you think.

As the Sun Sets on one life, another begins

As I finished another sweet and sad Modern Love column in the New York Times I reflect on my own stories:
Of the heartache
reborn as something new
fresh and happy.

Looking back at what seems like a dark tunnel of the past
of confusion
and sadness
feelings of not being enough
or too much
fade away to the reality of unconditional.

In the way that love is Modern
as it is classic.
Clean as it is dirty
Perfect as it is flawed in its joy.
Found through friends
at a glance at work
through the trenches online
it comes
and when it is real
it arrives
and stays for good.

Anxiety Rising

In the small pockets
where there are no words and only the gaps
of silence.

There is a rising
a wave of anxiety that envelopes
it consumes and drowns me
until all I can see is the red
darkness of anxious twisting hands
darting eyes
and panting breath.

When You Feel Like You Do Everything Wrong

It is a cycle
between the anxiety of doing wrong
that turns into a real wrong.

You stress
and pace
and worry until your whole body knows
tense like it knows air and skin.

What will go wrong today?

Will I be late?

Will I lose the one I love?

These are constant swirling questions
in a vast tunnel
where the light is there but I block it with my hand.

The Fire in Your Belly

On that day
when the roads ahead of you were clean.

Running you took a leap
eyes closed
arms stretched out
and plunged.

The day was different then
when life was about climbing bars and falling into sandy pits.

As our bodies mature
grow soft lines and aches form
like new snow on and in our skin.
The leaps fade into a similar
slump.

Yet the fire is there
welling like a furnace inside
burning the esophagus and the inner part of
your loins.
And it can be released
in the terra cotta days of old age
and in the bright lights of youth.

In the no snow winter

In the tallest city
where people are insomniacs
and busy-bodies
there is a dry feeling in the air.

There will be no snow this year
no children falling into piles of natural white
and no plows moving through the city slowly
and loudly.

Yet dry air
and wind
and noise
where the white silence was.

A Start!

The Jolt!
In the bleary darkness a shrill tone is heard.

Rushing to it
slamming your hand against its noise
you wait for it to be over
and slump back into
sleep.

Listening to a soul song

Remember?
Listening to that song that transported you back
to feelings long lost and never retrieved.

As you sway to the song
a sadness sits
because a song is never the person
never the breath on your back.
It is just notes strung like lights together.

The song lets go of your tears
like a sponge wrung out.
But it never brings back their skin
or their laugh as it grazes your chest and brings tears to your eyes.

You remember the song because it blends past and presence.
Bringing it close, while wiping it away.

Yesterday I Thought

That is I was right about something
I was right.

and if I was good enough
good things would happen.

and if I smiled I would feel a rush of
real happiness.

and if I hoped
dreams would be not just in my head but a
reality.

That is what I thought yesterday
what is there to think today?

A Dance With The Best of Them

When we dance, we show
not just bodies in constant movement
but the way are minds work.

In a twirl
a lot is said
and many things are left out
of the conversation.

With a low dip
hair grazing the floor
a spark to a inner thought arises.

Mind Bender

At the edge of your mind
there is a precipice.

You look down and into something
vast.

At the time of day when the mind bends
and twists
into knots of thought
or lack there of.

You look into that abyss of
nothing
no words
or images

and just jump.

Mist and nothing else

There is a white mist
where the white use to live.

Yesterday there were piles of
white clouds at our feet.

Now there is nothing
but brown stone
gray asphalt
and blue dreams.

There hangs a mist over our house
where the sun use to sit.

Where the fluffy balls of
powder
thick
wet
heavy
would press on our shoulder
and seep through our shoes.

Now there is just a light trickle
where the white
use to live.

The Flip Side of Good

On the rumbles of the inner layers of bad.
Where the morals flip
and thoughts drift.

You wonder what is the right path
when the best one shows that it is wrong.

On the flip side of good
in the scheming
and plotting to get your way.

There is nothing but you
on the other side of the flip.

I Will Write The Letter

As I set down the paper
and place the pen to it
I realize that the days have gone by
where I write these words on fresh linen pages.

Where I smudge out mistakes with the burnt smell of eraser
and carefully refer to the dictionary for spelling.

There is a LOSS.

The loss of the art of feeling my hand ache from excited scribbles.
The sloppy last line of the page
curling words along the side and edges of paper.

Now I sit with a LED screen
watch my eyes dry.
I type furiously with the sound of clicks in my brain.
That is how I write this letter to you
and forward it to my friends
post it on facebook
edit in red the mistakes
and save it on my desktop.

Releasing the block

Earlier I stated I was stuck
between words that could not be found.

I searched them
sought them through the pathways
the mazes of my brain.

How funny the Cranio is
to yourself when it is not
a clear line
but a ragged, not well-kept garden
of stray sentences, loose words
hanging, incomplete thoughts.

But they are hear
so
enjoy.

Stuck with no words

At my computer it is another day
Scanning my mind
for a line
a word
something to
jog me.

I panic inside
cholesterol rising,
blood boiling...

What can I write?

The Slip

I pulled the wool over your eyes!

Take that! I yell.

The day has been won
but I do not feel like a winner.

Yesterday you fooled me
once
twice
too many times.

and I plotted
and schemed.
Twisting my fingers along my hands
and laughing with a chesty bellow.

Then I did it
I committed the crime
and you are confused
wronged.

But I do not feel the satisfaction
no ticker tape parade.
I feel like I did it all


for nothing.

It Washed Away

In the course of time
sand
water
dust
people

all wash away

The imprints made on surfaces
delicate to gravity
are there but not permanent.

Like a circle of sand
in design formations
everything
like the hand on my shoulder
to the press of a foot against a gas pedal
washes away.