Monday, February 23, 2009


I wrote this about two years ago...



Sun- don’t set! I beg of you-
grant me still the light of day.

Sun- beam ‘cross the barren blue-
the shore still so far away.

Away- across the somber sea,
where no wave does raise its peak.
Away- from peace, from purity,

of which no man does speak.

Speak- of what? Of life? Of love?

I see none of that out here.

Speak- simply of the clouds above,
that christen me with drear.

Drear- that clouds away the light,

and rips its rays undone.
Drear- that beckons forth the night,

As my heart sinks like the sun.

Thursday, February 19, 2009


there is something important in the way paper fades. In the way words pale into a soft navy and photographs blush yellow. In how the subjects in the pictures begin to blend into one another, subtly.
there is something important in the way our attempts to capture moments dim and dissipate when we lay them out in the sunlight; how something new and soft and beautiful emerges out of a seemingly solidified second.

Saturday, February 14, 2009

future goals and aspirations: a list.

- learn to knit
- travel to spain, germany, and back to belgium
- have a functioning vegetable garden
- have a flower garden
- have a significant number of poems published
- live/teach in a foreign (preferably european) country
- take philosophy classes in college, and know what I'm talking about
- learn to crochet
- have people live in my house/apartment/cardboard box on the side of the murch, and cook for them
- write a self study of...myself.
- not have ugly bulletin boards. this is very important. very, very important.
- learn to speak either spanish or german. maybe both.
- learn to make jam/jelly
- write a play, and see it performed (even if just locally)
- have a substantial column in the newspaper
- make/sell jewelry

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

a new haiku, for you

i hate mock trials-
and so would you, I promise
it will destroy you.

Thursday, February 5, 2009

I have never been
a soft, subtle line in your
poetry- have I?

Tuesday, February 3, 2009




here, amidst the cattails,
I am so enormously small
that my shadow has lost it's darkness;
that my soul has lost it's thinness.
A hundred days
is a rush of nothing,
that courses over the heavy rocks.
Webs glistening in fine silver chains,
adorned by tiny violets
that open for night,
and night alone.
your voice is but an echo,
that fades in the pine branches,
caught in the throats of nightingales
who sing it into something new and bright,
a prayer for the phosphorescent fireflies
that dance in whispered dawn.
searching the crystalline surface
I find wearied constellations,
that dissipate in nearing twilight
and leave my reflection and I
hidden between the stars and sky.