Category: Living on Purpose

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Step Two

  Step two : Get small, she said—small as possible you ain’t gonna reach the earth if you insist on being so big. Curl your toes; just like that til you sink neatly in on your center– double, triple, crisp and clean-cut like a paper brochure tuck yourself under and let the head droop.

Step One

  Step one : I throw up my hands and jump out the bus window— What you doing?! I shriek and laugh as my face slams against the hot asphalt. A car screeches beside my left foot. Sticky exhaust blossoms into my mouth from the butt of the bus and the squirrel by the trash can squeaks.

The Rock and the River

  At the top of the outcrop I sat with my knee-bones tight to my chest— the river undulated below, swirling in shades of blues and yellows refracted light on stones of marble the guttural current cut the cliff to slices–jagged & twisted and

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Aloha

  Consider the man in the aloha shirt talking to the Banyan tree. The diet Pepsi clutched in his hands holds him against the chipped picnic table and the spotty pigeons scatter when he flicks his toes.

Sunlight Pages

  She was a warm-weather writer the sunlight singing into her salted shoulders she tipped her head back and felt the flesh rise, tiny hairs stretching  for a soft sky. The pen she held loosely between fingertips knowing it wasn’t for show she was here.

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Voices

  If you scowl, they’ll know. They’ll see into that cave smile and know—if you frown, it’s clear to them, that your mind is a burrito and you are the tortilla, wrapped so endlessly it’d take the sharpest knife to separate that mound. If you let a tear squeeze through they’ll see and gasp and wonder what must have happened to you to make … Read More Voices

Sourdough Soul

  Don’t ask me to do that. Don’t ask me anything, actually, I’m in deep, deep fermentation & have no flyers to hand out today.

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Autonomous Outsiders

  Praise be the autonomous who sit, crumped upright in a land of red Mountains. The ones who eat, food dripping from loose corners, at a table of stone, who lay, facedown on beds of Earth shards, listening hard for the rare sound

Breathe Your Own Air

  You wore their hearts on your wrists and ankles belly to belly hugging, chalky and holistic. They extended themselves to you palms sunwards, asking you to see them, to see them, to see them. Your own heart, you tucked carefully out of peripherals, finding happiness in the folds of not having to share everything.

Art for the Sake of Life

  It’s all danger here– this you know, you feel in the tapping at your temples the throbbing in your ankles. Danger screamed in yellow exclamation marks against your brow. Yes. They say it. You say it– All danger here.

Making Sense

  How to make sense in a world neglecting crayons. I need paper please    that white blank paper is vital so much    is vital so much    is vital so much    is    missing. If I cannot make sense (and I cannot buy it) then I must steal sense. Take it with my chalk hands, leave finger outlines on the black … Read More Making Sense

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Creative Process

  Three cheers of a dusted dawn; electric angels sweep the streets, and light clouds skip stones against the still lavender waters of the canal. Earth sings her morning tune, low and orange against the cool palm breeze. Creation calms and tells me I must start today from the inside. No half expressions.