Category: Living on Purpose


Breath Work

  She sighs, constantly. Always the sigh, sighing herself to wishful elegance, whisking the whites to rising peaks, she counts herself backward,


127 Percent

  Evening light pales into my windows from behind the palms, piloting in a fruity breeze to stir the pages at my desk. I’m 30 percent writing, 25 percent sipping tea, 9 percent listening to jazz beats & 63 percent certain my poetic Muse has taken the day off.


Lewis Wharf, Boston; 1978

  Fall colors warm her sweet face, deep reds and blushing oranges snuggling into the gentle wrinkles at her cheeks; the low light off the fading greens bounce from the brown of her sweater to my eyes, the softness I cannot myself believe. Contained in one tiny, aging human is the breath of ages seen and past— each petite wrinkle is a memory of … Read More Lewis Wharf, Boston; 1978


Soften the Jaw

  & tell the abyss the darkness is temporary. The moonlight is warming & the breeze which sweeps transposes the seeds and growth is in the underbrush. Tell the abyss it’s nearly dawn—that time runs parallel to furrowed brows and intersects


Kafka Talks

  Thunder resigns the dimpled sky to fatigue and stirs my Delphian soul— Around my brow clocks circle, clocks in heat in twenty directions the ticks tock— When the lights flicker, I come to. Lucid puddles seep into shoe beds



  I’m a Fiat roof rack I’m the bicycle lacquered in red lights I’m the afterthought after the period drops. I’m dizzy with it all and too sleepy to wait til Christmas. Let days just be days— they’ve been overlooking my permission for ages.


Moon Dance

  There are 7.8 billion poems about the moon; having read none of them, I wonder: If all her glowworms cast their eyes to her size and whimper amongst themselves: why she so low— then what does she do? Diddly.


Sonnet 17

  Borrow the car Borrow the flour Borrow the book Borrow the shears Borrow the money Borrow the tuxedo Borrow the pencils Borrow the clothes Borrow the tampon Borrow the vacuum Borrow the ice pack Borrow the envelope Do not borrow the soul. The soul is yours.


  The words house themselves within me, I am not the words. If they come I remain whole. If they do not come I remain whole.


Artistic Integrity

  I want to be an art critic. I want to have such a glorious eye piece, that the thinnest strokes of oils and acrylics could shine off my lens into your face when you address me as “madam” and I grace you with my gaze.


  Slow down. Whoa, slow down. There is a way to do this. A way to do it all without feeling pieces of shrapnel carving cave lines into the ear bones. A way to do it all and feel electricity in the veins, singular purpose so singular, elephants in the foothills.



  That crash could’ve been an ancient computer tossed from the twentieth floor, the Hewlett-Packard bricks in vintage disarray, the collection of hipster hues in the hallway closet. It was that loud! The raised voices which follow make sense, as if a strong-armed woman in her own right rose up to her man and chucked his grandfather clutter out that living room window, smashing … Read More Crash