I have to admit.  I don’t know what I want to do with my life.

I only know how to do what comes naturally.
To write, to draw, to sing, to play.

I haven’t a cent to my name
that paid for these efforts.


slavery for starlight.

I don’t want to forget the starlight.  But each day my attention is soaked into a digital frenzy of words, sounds, deadlines and images that I am not likely to escape again until the appropriate hour strikes and allows me to leave.

We are all chained to the intellectual work machine.  And for many of us the world is derived of disjointed, cluttered highways, unfriendly lights, and the loss of time.  Time is always being siphoned from us in exchange for the coveted resource of the United States green.

And how we become entirely possessed by the pursuit of this green.  Freedom is scarce but for the paper ticket we chase and die for.  They say the green doesn’t make you happy, but how do we live when we are slaves to how much of it we spent, telling ourselves if we could afford this, then one day we’d have the time to gaze at the starlight.

Slaving away for the hopeless dream of wishing on stars we’ll never see.


Our love was the kind that couldn’t be saved from destruction.

Your eyes always burned through the crowd, shattering my atmosphere.  We came together with an urgency that violated speed restrictions.  You told me “Nobody” and “Nothing” and “No one else” as our lips crashed into the surfaces of each other.

And in the wake of our violent beginning, the end came slowly, and silently—

Long after the ground cracked, the world quaked, and the dust settled.  Like an empire, we were never built to last.  The girls and boys of tomorrow will kick at the dust of our ruins, wondering and guessing about the the monumental scar that remains.

you were my first choice, that i still couldn’t make.

I always wanted it to be you.
But my soul chose the latter between disappointment and the promise of change.

I couldn’t stay, while you stole from me.  You lived in the secrets I brushed across your forehead and through your hair.  You clung to the wilting white frames of us kissing and laughing in corners together.  And maybe you could continue burning on the fumes of my siphoned heart.

But my soul couldn’t.  Even though I always wanted it to be you.
And the truth is, I still do.

interviewing the ballet girl.

The day you fell, was a tragedy for us all.
Sometimes the saying “Did you fall from heaven?” doesn’t quite fit,
even though it was often asked of you.

After all, Heaven was where you belonged—
among the stars.

Perhaps that is why in my life, I had always taken such care
never to break any bones.

Though your legs shattered, you didn’t feel it.
It didn’t hurt quite as much
as your heart.

What was it like to rise into the spotlight?
And then miss a step and fall from the stage?

“For a dancer?” you replied.

It was like hell.

born with amnesia.

We forgot as we burrowed through and burst into the world, where we belonged and who we were loved by.  And along the way pieces of everyone we met reminded us of what we lost and what we so terribly needed again.  It seemed the world was fashioned to steal from us these things we can’t remember and desperately miss.

If only we could realize that all of those things that we cling to… we were supposed to learn how to give.

dinner for two.

Put the fork down and leave your regrets on the table.
We will not consume them alongside the irritated flicker of candlelight.
We will not justify and correct and shape up our versions of history.

With our country resentfully divided, I lay this treaty upon the borderline:
We were only confused.  We were only mistaken.
We were only hopeful.  We were only in love.
We were only human.