notes on a napkin at a cafe table in the rain


we are
a pandemic of passive aggressiveness
hurled at miniscule liquid quartz
and those past lives we thought were buried
under discarded matchbooks and empty bottles
so we leave our children
half-completed instructions on how to be
in new age hieroglyphs that remind us
what we once enjoyed
and what we won’t dare to anymore

sometimes the sky weeps for us
and hopes its deluge of tears
can wash away the stains of our apathy
the petrichor is much more important now
the air is solemn for seconds afterward
perhaps it wonders if it even made a difference
outside of broken and cast aside umbrellas
and the chill damp fabric brings to the body
but this moment is interrupted
to bring you a news crawl that isn’t news

sometimes the sky weeps for us
and it helps to hide the tears of those we won’t look at
but discuss over mugs of coffee in kitchen nooks
picked by hands some recoil at on buses and subways
covered with dirt more honest than the lives of those who judge
if only because we fear being there on the pavement
sometimes those tears are music
that we know the words to but can’t quite place the melody
not yet

august 29th, 3:41 p.m.


the sidewalk doesn’t hiss anymore
as i step lively,
the maniacal chimes of ice cream trucks
that circle blocks more than corner boys
drift further and further apart.
the smoke of barbecues
drapes itself across the breeze
i feel the sun lick at my neck with less intensity
like a tired child with a flavor of coco helado
they had to settle for.
there are no more open hydrants
the sprinklers are set out less frequently
and the bees are plotting their escape.
older folks
look at the dwindling sunlight
for the years they’ve forgotten,
and a radio issues forth tunes to coddle the soul –
Chi-Lites, Mighty Sparrow and Gladys Knight.
the summer is taking her leave,
barefoot with sandals in hand.
i watch the curvature of her calves trailing off
on the horizon, pink and almond ochre that
floats off into gentle midnight,
taste the last bit of barbecue sauce on my fingers
and down the last ounce of beer
exhaling a season softly.

forgiving my fears of being forgotten, or appreciating all of the moon.


i recently took some time away in part from social media. mostly from
Facebook, partially from Twitter and Instagram. i felt the need to take
that time because i do honestly feel that technology and its products
have led to a decline in person-to-person communication in terms of
people genuinely connecting to themselves and others. don’t get me
wrong, i’m well aware of the irony on that statement being expressed
on a website and you happening upon this via social media. i do really
cherish the continued connections i have with folks on here. but i will
always uphold and cherish the ones i have had and continue to have
offline. that said, i came into a discovery during that time that shook
me up, but not in a shattering way that i first imagined it would.

i have a tendency to feel alone and left out or left behind by people.
and i know that it’s not the case most of the time, hence my struggle
with this feeling.

i’ve struggled with this since i was little. there’s moments, no matter
how fleeting, where i have felt like a simple add-on to a conversation.
times where i feel more acutely like i’m not considered, or what i do
isn’t considered. times where i can feel really bothered or put out that
i’m not thought of even in a minor way by one or two people from time
to time. and i’ll feel like this to the point where i will cling to solitude a
bit more intensely than others. in rare moments, with a tinge of anger.
it’s taken me years to strip these feelings away, to examine them and
the causes for them. to find the triggers and see them for what they
are. i think that part of the issue stems from a matter of inheritance. my
dad has dealt with these feelings himself, and though we’ve never sat
and talked about the matter, i’ve been familiar with it. in a way, it’s made
me be determined to not think or act in that way, but blood is blood. and
what blood dictates sometimes can be a mountain upon your shoulder
blades. another aspect to this is that i know that there are many who care
for me, and about me. i KNOW this. and why i feel those twinges at times
is because i know this, and because i make an effort to be considerate
and care about others based on my own personal code of love and honor.
but there is that slippery slope that makes up the in-between of knowing
that people have you in mind and them showing you that leads to the
discomfort of the feeling of not being kept in mind. its kind of like the moon –
it seems we only really pay attention to it when it’s fertile and bright. but
we only glance briefly at its other phases. no one wants to be forgotten, or
cast aside, ever. some of us feel that more than most, based on our past
and based on what we’re doing and feeling now.

i know that there is a romance that exists among writers and literature in
terms of solitude, a romance that tends to celebrate the isolation a writer
can encounter in the process of creation. i take advantage of it myself, and
i do feel it can be necessary. but i also know that i don’t ever want to feel
disconnected or lonely. but in that connection with people, that involvement,
i DO WANT TO FEEL LIKE I’M A PART of it. there are others who can and
do operate differently, who can be detached or need to be because of their
own things they need to deal with. not me. i have to accept that these feelings
will crop up, more and more as time passes. but like the moon, i also will
now accept that there’s a cycle to these feelings and that the solitude will
not be forever. not if i’m sharing and celebrating and enduring through the
craft of my words, and through my relationships with those i care about. i
hope that if you have felt like this at any time, that you can sift through it and
realize that just like the moon, there will be those that appreciate you in all
your forms just as you do.

as always, thanks for reading. walk good.

here among the glow of the dunes


it is here among the dunes
here, where the last days of summer dance
frantically, like last call is minutes away
and they’re not sure where they’ve parked.

here among the miniscule bits of stardust and rock crystal
and shells that have heard millions of secrets
but cannot tell one completely
is where i seek to unravel yours.

here, on dunes that covet the hue of your cheeks
as they were when i saw you last
laid flush like cinnamon shaken loose within a mug of coffee
i find the memory of your arms around me.

here, the breeze lands upon my face
with an upturned kiss that clears all away
like burning white sage in a bedroom
and i think of where the spinning world takes you

here among the glow of the dunes
i hear the subtle thunder of the waves
and think of the shimmer of your spirit
that will sweep me into her arms