our hearts located
a drip away from 5
o.clock
your crow foot eyes
see
the past got nothing future
got nothing on you
on me
we got each other
in the city feel the kick
of life
hit the latitude
with attitude over dry and barren highways
east
not one degree short
of circling
encompassing the
earth
the wind whipped through
made sense of the calm
they got so tired
fell asleep walking
the sky turned blue
long after dawn
forgot to remember they
had not stopped talking
she finished his sentence
with a yawn. cracked eggs
on a rock
fried them by the sun
in the palm of her hand
the sky turned white
long after the blue
end of the day
overdue
washed out with water
on ice
I’ve been writing this piece called Trouble ’99 since late spring of last year. I read it in its entirety a couple weeks ago and found it several shades darker than i expected. Which corresponds to one of my three beta readers’ critique. Writing is not unlike painting. You add layers until you find an image that best represents what you wish to portray. Yet with fiction you wanna let it be its own honest creation, which is often outside what you intended. Mixing conscious and unconscious elements. Let it be what it is. My characters may have fallen into a hopeless situation as they walk through the pages, but there is always hope. I think my work is often threatened by an existential mood. I have wrestled in my heart with this since I was a child, one day in the backyard when the limit on life first struck me. So words naturally come out of me that reflect that disappointment. Implicit in my sadness, is how much i love life and all its intricacies. How badly I wish to live on!
she left the city swollen
sometimes with her way of certain
being
self-righteous. inflammatory
happenings surrounded her
creating a greater family
wherever she go refuse to be
stereotyped
gen.x
predating the baby boomers’
babies on
the evolutionary timeline. USA
attention: not to mention
she considered herself the luckiest
one alive
she checked herself
against another morning
i spoke to you by phone long distance
before the call i was collected and after i was
hurt again
i believe
the space i made the contact
with god was what allowed
me to
survive underwater deep
breathing inside the
divide
there was no newspaper on the holy day. plenty of fellowship and coffee at the church of aa. there were not any usual stores open but seven eleven. a woman stood barefoot in the cold as people came and went. dissociated she did not respond to any caring voices. what can be done? in a couple of months the sacramento bee will be phasing out newsprint on saturdays. times change and yet i hope for things worthwhile, that they not fall off the margins.
the harvest of satellites
from station to
station
appellation of meteorites
chemical analysis
of stardust
don’t fuck with
the usa
whatever you are doing
be willing to give your utmost
no matter how petty
or trivial
give a damn
fully
honestly
intentionally
with all your heart and mind and spirit
cultivate this practice
and no one can ever
fault you
super motivation for
emulation
you say i saved you
cannot we both be one another’s
inspiration?
my trail is shorter than yours
i see you far ahead and what
has happened
weeks i was catatonic mired
in depression. could not write
my verses
we were meant to be
to resist to
fight this morbid tendency cannot
we read the story
aloud?
something about
being worn down and off
and out
so bad you become
real
K IS SILENT 