Why have you made me, O God,
with these long large hands
and these wide quick feet?
Why did you breathe deep into
my oversized heart
that is now collapsing upon itself?
Will you breathe anew,
fill me and tell me who I am?
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This is my new typewriter.  I want to practice on it.  If you so desire a letter or perhaps a story from me typed on this machine, leave a comment with a topic of interest, I will contact you about a mailing address, and it shall be done.  [note: first time comments must be moderated]  a buh bye.

O, god
can you
hear me
in there
where
i cannot
hear
myself?
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from its sleep
the dead in me
she stretches,
wakes and yawns
and i am pushed apart.
rotten and soft
i am pushed apart.
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It is Fall again, and constantly I long for a history I will never reclaim.  The brisk air.  The sound of rustling leaves.  The memories of a home that seems now to have no walls.  Fall brings memories of a childhood awareness that life is metered by experience where time is abstract.  A complete and utter consumption in the now.  It is this awareness that I realize I have lost.  It is simplicity.  It is innocence. [read more]

over my body
my hands finger.
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when I stand
at the base of
a large tree
and look up
I become dizzy
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The little tree braced as he heard the howl.  Furiously, the wind rushed up through the river valley, teeth snarling behind silent eyes.  The nameless wind pushed before it smells of baked apples and chimney smoke.  Yet it groaned, promising to be fierce and cold.  The little tree inhaled a deep breath, filled his trunk, filled his branches, and filled his leaves full.  Then he hunkered down with a wince, curling his roots, collecting soil deep down in the earth.  This was his first Fall, and he was terrified. [read more]