You’ve got your life instagrammed. You stream a persona that never repeats. You snap up who you are in a dozen photos a day. You scroll through the deadened sea, of the others, and heart who you think they are. Your imagination is infused with the smell of Madagascar vanilla. You know your world. You

On the mountain

We climbed the same mountain today A few white hairs we blew in the wind We surrendered to what never attacked us We entrusted our future to a rock I roll small pebbles down a precipice to test the symbolic capacity of this mountain. You smile and I talk the next two mountains in you


Lured by a row of pastel macarons
I enter the store like a stray verse,
looking for comfort in its soothing hues
The soft face behind the counter smiles
when I smile, before I order a coffee to go
with my pink and orange macarons


A downtown apartment with security and a water cooler.
The furniture landscape emerging from a Persian rug.
Slow drip coffee. Long bookshelves with “art”.
A low noise dehumidifier.
A mahogany banister.

My violin teacher

After twenty years I found my violin teacher
on Facebook. She remembered me, that was one of the joys of teaching, she wrote.

In the mean time, entire lives have started:
our children born, nine eleven, financial crisis. History has happened.

I want to ask her about my vibrato.

A belief is all we have

A belief is all we have
to hold on to, some warmth
weaning us for darker times
when we thicket each other’s softest spots,
make our fingers lost and blow
weightless snow in each other’s faces
when we make chocolate gestures,
blanket soft talk in some rearrangement
of tired starlight

Morning Routine

I have the best morning routine. It’s an exceptional morning routine. It’s quick and new and ‘smart’. You do this morning routine, it will blow people out of the water. They’ll never see it coming! It’s the number one routine. The absolute best. There is a healthy brain guru named Jim Kwik who is peddling

Circle of Life

You too will get the e-mail from the hospital
You don’t know when, or which hospital, or
if the doctor has been born yet, but
it will come.

The good news is that you can already respond
to that e-mail, by giving birth
to some humor.


coffee beans and machine guns change we can believe in. blackness is an ideal churches full of popcorn mumbling generals in tank tops nightliners piercing darkness a dead dog’s candy eye, the tightrope of history cigarette butts drowned in cold coffee orphans and Eurydice in ironed T-shirts earthworms tunneling underfoot abandoned swimming pools, and an


Written for some poetry award last December, this clunker is what you get when you think too much while writing poetry on black coffee: now, here i do what i am supposed to do, i sit down and place a pillow underneath my behind, while thoughts billow in my mind in front of me there