Tuesday, March 8, 2011


Next page will change the play.

Next time around, it will be different.

"Next" adds to, replaces, disagrees with, mutilates, transcends, highlights, chews up, embalms, entombs and supersedes "Is." "Next" is powerful potential, a benign or malignant tumor on the rim of now.

"Next" jumps from spontaneous occurrence or marches from deliberate intention. It is an aspiration, a plan, a design or a surrender.

"Next" is an illusory projection costumed as a question, a statement or an ultimatum.

But the core, the truth, the mystery of "Next" is that "Next" never is.

So -- What's next? Is there really light at the end of the tunnel? How long is the tunnel? Is there truly calm after the storm? What's next?

I care not but swell to the lights and drama of the storm and intrigue at the soulified texture of the tunnel. I free "Next" to take care of itself and unwrap now.

Fini! No Next Text.

Thursday, December 3, 2009

Message to Eric Richard
To be true be
Who are you now?
Are you
In brackets between
before and later but never again
the same as My Memory holds true
Of you - In my mind shadows play tricks
To heart pulses saddened by yesterday's tone
But fierce today - I see you now
I touch you now
I know you now?
My sweet son

Tuesday, November 24, 2009


I remember boxed lunches on a train
I remember running down the car
Sliding back muted silver doors - slipping through
I remember the taste of cold – sweet on my tongue
But a sting to my eyes
I remember I stared at the ground
Now a frenzied pebbled blur snapping in a space
Far below
I remember I held my breath
And Jumped
To the Next Car

I remember the Black Capped Man
Punched our tickets – one by one
Then closed our compartment door

I remember dusk sped by
I remember Mountains ahead and behind
Still and strong
In non-movement

I remember Mama pulled a gown from her satchel
I remember I climbed to the top bunk
I remember my question –

Where will we be when the rail tops the ridge?

I remember we sliced through black hills
Our train a bullet – with a whistle that screamed of its
Life in the
Late Evening Shadows

I remember I held my sister’s hand
When she snuck up to my bunk and
We double hugged Raggedy Ann
Under our blanket

I remember we surged through the night

I remember I hoped we’d not stop
Til we came to the place as
Free as the Train

I sit on the slope and watch the stream. It is steady in flow. Yet every wave that slaps the rock throws out its own water ring. I want to jump across the stream from jagged stone to rock moss - but I am wary of my balance.

I revere acrobates whose every movement is tuned to the swing of the bar - all trust in timing - no blame assigned to the trapeze. The flyer's mind is blank to all but the flight, to the grasp of the bar 50 feet above the ground - 6 inches away from death or life.

I pull myself up from the hill. I jump step the stones across the stream under a throbbing sun.