Ode to the Rollin’

It’s never quite and always almost
the glass half and that other grass
like Mick I
just can’t get no
perspective on
the relativity of satisfaction
like Mick I’m
always almost taking it
never quite by the tongue
I’ve got the moves
like Mick but not the swagger
like a stone
I’m just too heavy
to roll.

oh this again

oh this again
thank god
we keep going going going
and then we come back to
this again
this you always
and I never stuff
this why can’t you
and why don’t I
it’s all so familiar
thank god
it’s this again
but I don’t want to do this again
with anyone ever again
that is
with anyone other than

Here Is Neither

When I say
I am here
for you
My here is neither
nor there

I know that I am truly
when here is neither
One there being
and the other there

For even when I am
“over here”
I am indicating a without place
and the indicating originates
from within

It is only
that solitary
eternal moment
of being
only when here transforms my withins to withouts
that unbounded
all-encompassing without enclosing
of transformation in simultaneous stillness
the being and the becoming at once
is my hereness
perfectly neither.

The Falling Night

The branches and their leaves, the hillside that sits behind our house, and telephone poles have turned into black construction paper cutouts against a faded blue-gray sky. White glittering pinpoints twinkle from white to brighter white. In the dusky blue above, some stars twinkle from white to green to red and become airplanes making their slow motion meteoric fall toward the quiet ground. Everything is black or grey, save the tan bamboo growing along the still whitish fence that guards our grassy heaven and home. Everything has lost it’s hue and only shades of muted blacks and whites and sky grays remain. Those colorful crickets though… they are singing to the night in a purple, pink, and orange melody.

Fall upon me, Night.

Dawn upon me, Light.

Boots, Boxes, and the Lovey Dovey


Earlier today, while going through boxes in the garage, I came across a boot-sized box, inscribed with the word “Ugg”. I opened the box.

“Ugh”, I said.

Sure enough, there were the fat fuzzy boots. But why were they in this box? This wasn’t a boot box, not anymore. Last year, I had taken them out of the box, and they had lived in the bottom of my old closet with all my other boots, sneakers, flip-flops, and pumps.

No, this was not a boot box. This was a treasure chest. If this relationship were any other relationship, this box would be the “Burn Box” for when we broke up. But no, this box is where you put all the things you don’t ever want to forget. This is where, again, if this were any other relationship, you would put the things you never want to remember, along with a well-tortured voodoo dreadlock havin’ rag-man-doll, before you do a full moon chant and torch that mofo with all his lame so-called-love tokens! This is serious business, this box.

This is not a boot box. But still, there they were. Right on top of our precious unforgettable treasures. There were cards, letters, love notes, napkins, wine corks, and gift wrap, ribbons and even the gift bags for all the presents my sweet, sweet Squeezy had given to me. This box was holding LOVE. And Uggs.

I chose this big fat boot box because it was the biggest little box I had at the time, and even though it was big enough for fat fuzzy winter boots, it still wouldn’t be big enough to hold all of the lovey dovey tokens yet to come, no way! This was box #1 of… who frikken knows? Me and my Squeezy have a long row to hoe before the sun sets on this story. That’s a lot of wine corks and love notes and… plowing. That’s a lot of boxes. And a lot of love.

And a whole lot of why are there boots in here too?

Why? Because, when I moved in with him, Squeezy volunteered to pack up my closet. He popped the lid off the Uggs box, saw there was still room, chucked the boots in and wallah(!) he’s helpful.

Go Squeezy…

Ladies, it just goes to show, there is no room for man’s “logic” where boxes of romance are concerned. Unlike Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, “you got your logic in my love box” will not turn into your favorite way to keep PMS at bay. It may only lead to confused blogging and dusting boot-prints off envelopes, love notes, and wine corks.

Say, what’s with all the wine corks?

Everybody knows there’s nothing like a little grape juice to grease the plow!

Are we there yet?


Mr. King said this intentionally, I’m sure. While I do know why he found adverbs so sinful, I find the absence of them, in my case, exceptionally worse. My own personal road to hell is not paved with them. In fact it’s not paved with adjectives, nouns, or prepositional phrases or in fact any words at all.

And that’s my problem. My life is hell because of the absence of words. I need to write. I want to write. But I avoid it like the plague. I will think I’m going to write. I will be convinced that I am. And then I don’t. My road to hell actually IS paved with good intentions!

So today, for the fourth time in a row (not the fourth consecutive time) I wrote in my journal (which doesn’t count) that I NEED to write, that I MUST write, that I WILL write. And then, I threw my journal down, made a coffee (yes, we’re back to that), marched up the stairs, all but tied myself to my desk chair, and am now writing. Don’t let’s get our hopes up, folks. But it’s a start!