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.



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.

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.