April Fools’ Day


Does each month have it’s own particular kind of fool? I kinda hope so – maybe April is simply when all of them decided, once upon a time, to unite and boldly and brashly trick us.

That’s how they, Puck like, really slip it to us – right under our noses. Off we go smugly ignoring the other 364 days.

I kinda like that idea.

April Fools’ Day

How to Talk to a Tiger


There is a village in New Guinea where every morning, the first thing every family does when they awaken is sit and listen to everyone’s dreams from the night before.

They share all that they saw and experienced as they slumbered.  If a dream was a nightmare, the family tells one another what must be done.

Once, a child told his family that he didn’t want to share his dream, that it was too horrible and nothing could be done. They insisted and said he would not be given breakfast until he told them.

The child reluctantly said, “I was being chased by a tiger, and over and over the tiger would catch me and begin to devour me. First it started with my leg, then next with my arm, once even with my throat! Nothing can be done about that.”

“This is what you do the next time your tiger comes for you,” his parent began. “You tell the tiger attacking you – hey YOU get OVER here. YOU must protect me YOU must defend me. This is what you say to your tiger tonight.”

How to Talk to a Tiger


It’s 4
And you’ve gone
And here I sit
Remembering you
One moment ago
No, not even.
Tighter than that
When we were
Somewhere so small
That the space in between
Fell away
So deep and full
We couldn’t help but
Want to drop
You whispered “here we go.”

We’re not for gathering.
We’re not for mending.
It’s 4
And you’re gone
And here we sit
Going to where ever
Remembering wills us.
No. Not like some, faithful and
Tortured by dark.

It’s lighter than that
Behind closed lids
Allowing nothing to
Stream in I flow
Regarding you
One moment ago
When it was 4
And we laughed
About fish in cans.

[Original ending above. Alternate ending recorded for a possible song that was being tested for collaboration, but never (as of yet) completed:
And now I remember
That once we began.
And it was 4
And you’re gone.]

The Fox & A Dog

I remember the moment
Clear as shattering glass
when you let drop my heart’s hand
And yours slinked back into its hovel
Guarded by toothily grinning, razor edged

Beckoning seductively – promising the
Ultimate, delicate, delectable
Patience if I would gently stroke the
Soft outstretched palm, lick the lips
guarding those jaws, offering the all
the everything.

The fox said to love a thing is to tame it.
But dog knew better…
To love a thing that believes in such a
Power as taming…
Is to dwarf one’s own heart.


The Fox & A Dog

Sister Light, Sister Dark

IMG_3407As the rising ends and the setting comes
And the bolster of the city begins to slowly shift
To quiet
To relief
To loneliness
A moment paused
My breath held…

Sister light sits on our bed
Wringing her hands
Her body swaying to a slow pulse
Her hair, falling like willows, framing her face.
Silent breathing.
Silent shudders.
Her fingers twirling, shaking like paper.

Sister dark stands, hand on hip
Weight shifted, knee bent
Grinning toothily down on our bed
Her head cocked, crooked like bent steel.
Deep breathing.
Deep moans.
Her smile smooth, dancing like jackals.

They fall together and wrestle on our blankets
Pillows falling to the floor
Feathers flying
Breathless sighs and heavy pants linger long after.

They stare at each other, muted, neutral, neither defeated
Neither glorious.
Sister light weeps.
Silent tears streaking her cheeks like slugs.
Sister dark laughs.
Guttural sounds filling the empty air like drums.

My sisters. My natures. Myself, in battle that never ends.
War that never resolves.
No treaties. No barters or silent handshakes.

The decent ends, hot darkness filing in between the pillars of concrete.
Sister light fades, her flickering body glistening like gossamer strands.
Her translucent tears still dripping – making our bed sweat.
Sister dark stands alone, tilts her head once
And we walk out the door.

Sister Light, Sister Dark

Sweet Nothings

At the sigh(t) of hands 
slipping in hands I get woozy.
I sit and listen to streets
Streaked with wet gravel.
Words bounce against the pavement 
Up against the concrete
Jump through my window and fall in my lap.
I get woozy.

I’ve put silk across my skin…black, old, 
perfect-drape-across hips.
I smell wet leaves under soft cotton
And remember him(s)
tight and taunt pressed strong against my back
My back warm against his press.
I get woozy.

I slip silk off my skin…crisp, new,
 not-quite-right in the fit.
I wonder if there’s fruit in his looms
And I gazed on him tight and taunt
Pressed and lost against my back
My back arched away from his press
I get woozy
High on sweet nothings.

Like candy dripping hi-glow yellow sticky sugar streaked
Wet, moist against lips, oozing between fingers 
Like second skin
Peeling apart

The glucose, fructose fills my blood
My brain
Melts in my water and sends me flying
Toward him

My belly jumps and gurgles then lurches
Filled with empty calories 
I beg for more
Pleading for a bite
Aching for a taste
Just a small taste
Just a tiny nibble?
Just a quick lick?
Just a little bit is all I need…

Of those sweet 
nothings. Oh yeah I get woozy.

Sometimes you can only plead


Sweet Nothings

Just No Stories

False proverbs I’ve started collecting:

– The pen is mightier than the sword.
– All’s fair in love and war.
– The luck of the IrisH.
– Make new friends, but keep the old.
– Never a borrower or a lender be.
– Blood is thicker than water.
– Time heals all wounds.

True proverb:
– The only guarantees are death and taxes.


‘So You Want to Be a Writer’ by Charles Bukowski

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.
‘So You Want to Be a Writer’ by Charles Bukowski