our hearts located
a drip away from 5

your crow foot eyes

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

not one degree short
of circling

encompassing the

water on ice

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

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

self-righteous. inflammatory
happenings surrounded her

creating a greater family

wherever she go refuse to be


predating the baby boomers’

babies on
the evolutionary timeline. USA

attention: not to mention
she considered herself the luckiest
one alive

tv watchin girl

she checked herself

against another morning

of dutiful obeisance
renting heads out for free
on an episodic wave of programmed
perry mason would take her
unfulfilled potential white
and black past
subject and object
a murder mystery
is watching


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



holy day (2019 history)

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


appellation of meteorites

chemical analysis

of stardust

don’t fuck with
the usa

(how) to give a damn

whatever you are doing
be willing to give your utmost
no matter how petty
or trivial

give a damn

with all your heart and mind and spirit

cultivate this practice
and no one can ever
fault you


super motivation for

you say i saved you
cannot we both be one another’s
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


something about
being worn down and off

and out
so bad you become