everyone around you is greiving

Category: 2019: open poems

there is not enough in me

to translate

to you

how hard it was

for me


love you


leave you


I am not a cowboy

and these are not my boots

gifted, they were

from a mermaid

knew your mom

before the great flood

a jury in oakland said

to the landlords and the city of oakland that it was really no one’s fault. the whole concept of blame, sort of, just, flies out the window, a broken window, with flames for hours for days for weeks for months and years, for ever in our collective grief, but, a jury in oakland said –

there is a raccoon

in the fig tree

I remember the taste of

Dave’s cigarettes

circa ninety seven years old we were not but seventeen

in a car, a jetta, upwards north, fast like a fenzy, we

quit our jobs for a quick and sudden taste of the pacific northwest

how we could smoke inside that diner, next to sub pop, the mega mart,

below where we stayed, and we smoked cigarettes out the window, watching

the crocodile cafe in all it’s hidden late night wonders, and I

bought a CD and a shirt from a band I only heard for maybe

nine seconds with the headphones on, and how we found

cobain’s under the bridge, how we blew a tire

in aberdeen, how we found his high school,

and how we visited hendrix’s grave

and met young cloud who was

somehow hovering over the grave

him and his swollen feet and his

coming rain and –

sigh manifesto

breathe in

breathe out

let the fog

breathe in

let the fog


grave dancers union

some cut out cardboard
hanging like a mobile
in the air
Lou’s Records
I bought it on cassette
they got me
I was 15

be still, my garden

the moon is coming

fear not

my nervous fingers like

feathers in the sun

pierce the coming storm


how innocent the rain


when you smile

I am everywhere but here

in short,

I’ve made peace with

the loneliness

I’ve been

searching for

it burns because

it still burns

blood and water

flood and wonder

my sparklehorse postcard, these days

consists loose twig and purple ribbon

a pail of lunch on the horizon

a unicorn morning in the making

it is a deleted text

to an old friend

with a flannel back pack

and no phone –

the vines when raked

don’t fall far from the walls

swamp mist and chicken shit

palm fronds as big as a toad’s tongue

ripe as rain

silence and thunder




I started a poem

it was just a small poem

we were just kids


I never told you

I still write


take me back

take me back, remind me. set my feet into yr dirt earth. we were sentient once. it came like a spasm. a coming of age. there were wooded bowls for soup. we had a limousine furnished from scrap tin and make believe, the cashmere in the closet, where the rats fed, so young, so fast, everything eye liner and shadow, i learnt from sage. from ocean and sand. from clouds to doom. all of it. in one belt. one sitting. one life line, as they say. ribbons in the wind, if you will. i remember back seat and tape player. john lennon’s julia, battling the wind in my hair, i played it over and over. high as a kite. my eyes were red and my hair was green.