i wish i had something to say, a poetic moment to capture and place on paper film, the pen my camera. but i don’t. i can say i know he’s gone, i can feel him faded. the night after he died, i swore i heard his footsteps. they woke me up. maybe it took him…

Before I knew they were exotic, our neighbor’s wife made wontons. Fresh and ridiculous in our northern woods and tight log cabin. She folded and sorted and folded and pinched. Those wontons seemed, to me, like ruined cookies. They were treats that, like everything else she touched, were disfigured by her foreign hands. Wicked woman,…

Watching out there the Little villa Blue door and shrubs, hot to the touch of afternoon Low and long beds, spilling fragrance and flowers Flowers like the dawn yawning and stretching toward the retreating tide It’s a day closing

Watching the doors of the villa just there A bit closer to the sea A bit further along the canyon Upstairs The girl watcher, her pen aloft, counts hours by hand The curtains open to the setting sun

Outside the shackled WeHo windows, the shamless wind is parading. Earlier, a little rain made fresh the concrete and asphalt. In a scarf and vest, I felt nestled in. I was tucked in among my contemporaries who are angels masquerading as faulty humans. 01-04-07

we can see the fire burning away on the coast. we can see it. but I’m watching it. it burns in a straight line, up from the rocks, lapping at the road. clearly defiant. the constant ocean breeze pushes around the rich smell of ash. those are people’s houses down there, their lives and pictures…