Please click images for links to a few of my favorite things, or proceed below for my writing.

Here is the end of all things - claire morgan

reverse of volume - onishi yasuaki

butterflies, rafael aroujo

Rockefeller Center NYC - Mina Hu

reverse of volume - onishi yasuaki

photo by mina hu

adam ferriss

mina vesper gokal

NicktoLee/Banksy

12/2/14

Curve Stitch Year


Near the intersection of pace and chaos
a sparrow with a red-tipped wing paused to note
the patterns in the cracks
between the woulds

wherewith if there were a sudden summer gust,
might open up a hollow wherein everything's something
stands silent shining deep within,
a world of concrete magic swept beneath the shrugs
of fury-eyed decisions in the wake of 
fear-filled madness

There were times,
when,
that something was our everything,
you know.

Penniless creatures glide gently above, marking soft shaped hearts
latched to frothy strewn clouds and rainy bows,
flapping wings striking paths above darkness far below

Your boots
were always brand new,
and the sticker price was
heavy

and the prints always disappeared with the snow,
you know.

A minuscule lime green thread wraps around the tip of my finger
some unmarked obelisk
and stretches far into the yellows
to say hello,
you were here, I marked the spot.
I tied another red one from here stretched to flaming orange,
and also, there you were.
Blues,
stretched to royal purples,  you were here, you were there,
we were everywhere.

Sparrows lead the way with beaks of  arrows
while perfectly the world slides off the gentle sway of their backs, 
like the curve of your cheeks;
that softness where no matter what hardness I might know,
may it always be there.


5/10/14

History


The pale crescent shadow inside the dark iris 
of the gorilla behind bars
 - what let's me know that he is real -
isn't something I'd trade easily
for that bright sky honesty I can't forget 
shining like a rowboat wading in the sunlight
of your ocean blue eyes.

I built a tiny sand castle inside your left tear duct,
and a little girl with her red plastic bucket
crafts her dreams next to the the shoreline 
so safe inside of there.

While the quiet one with too much to say
sits and waits the time to pass;
Life flickering before him holograph
like memories on super-8 projector screen,
the story of the youth he never had.

A trajectory of iridescent arrows marks a circular path
of breadcrumbs from the zookeeper.
Eleven dusty pigeons rise beyond the surface
like incense smoke and flying ashes,
yet his chain of rusty keys can never be set free.
Convinced he has reenacted the great and mighty jungle
all for me,
these fake plastic trees,
the dirty glass of severed self-awareness,
the smudge of fingerprints 
which keeps him clearly from remembering
the wilderness where we belong.

Wildflower coconuts constructed just prettily enough
to distract the conscience of the ones who won't care for

instinct
and the reason
why gorillas don't speak.























Song

4/13/13

To My Father In His Time of Repair


Though we may look upon you as ghosts looking into ghosts
mirrors gazing into mirrors
the abyss, crawling out and staring back inside itself 
to wonder at the leagues beyond your see
and the meridians of your maritime adventure,

we are neither seeking what is lost
nor what to gain when

We are watching at life
and how it moves
like zoo keepers
at a grand terrain
building ant hills
just beyond the horizon
where the elephants do graze.

Watching at life and how it moves
like bee keepers
reading stories in the swarms,
shaman reading palm prints in the seashells,
sipping honey next to sea and storm.

When you went away
and came back again
like the tide turning back upon itself
after seven days of slumber,

you became more wondrous to me
than Apparition,
a hero from legions unknown
who returned to us again
filled with light
and magic,

and your new favorite word was:  good.

Daddy, you couldn't keep me from the wonder,
you couldn't keep me from wandering,
you couldn't allow the world to be anything
less than Endless,
when I looked upon you and searched
for the meaning of bedtime,
the meaning of Monday,
for the meaning of struggle,
and for the meaning of prayer.

To tend to the present moment with you
is this gift
whose wrapping papers
are endless
in their ripping.

Ice falls on green meadow carpets.
Winds speak in howling tongues at night.
The water laps in drones over a pool of water
like the daylight that glows like embers in your eyes
in this kingdom we call Home.

Father in the time of your repair
may you breath the second chance at life
that couldn't be taken had it never been given.

Song


7/25/12

Year of the Dragon


to be undecadent, irrelevant,
unmasked and unadorned,
thin horned,
to be erroneous, alias, vaporous, not clouded
billowing like a gust not a breeze
whispering through cement fairy trees
idolizing ghosts of consequence,
to be earthly and inconstant,
marred, and of the sea,
to punch like a wildflower, peonies bursting at the seems
in grandiose firecracker exits,
stage left,
to come back again,
to walk backwards,
and also forwards,
to be captured by your own imminence,
to be loud and unhindered in your solitude,
to slash and burn the forests of your darkness
until it crashes brightly in that heavenly hue
of something new.
may the invitation remain unspoken
may the expectation dissolve like sugar
in the our glass
may you more
or may you less
may you be loved.







6/30/12

Faded Moon, constant store light


chrysanthemums, i cannot de-syphon the code,
The colander, and coriander - mixing waters in this present, tense, only passing through
the nots that came before it like a potted plant -
roots so deeply embedded
re"plant"ing is a paradox.

Windstorm, I am passing through a bird

Muscular disc trophy,
My old fascial release.

Purr the gentle kitten paws
perching on a high wire
softly treads a sky below a ground above our feat

triumph is a zero in place of one,
to steal a second on the outer planks of darkness

how i know you could be anywhere
or here testing rope strings in the nightime with me,


pale eon dual threaded moon

his and hers
yours and theirs
moment
but never hours

Captured
a polaroid
promise,
but it fades.

i am wearing a holographic ring tied around my finger
to remember.
or otherwise Saturn
is a jewel,
and my grasp
an outstretched milky way.




5/16/12

Vitam Diligere Mortem


Whatever the cost of light, broken or
transfixed
through different apertures
Or the chance to remember.
The dream that visits like a long lost Father-
a gentle nod of the head
and then turning its dusky back
just with the rising of dawn.
A Mother at this uncommon doorway
owned by no one
and yet
to find sudden home
Inside you and me, we
Build these preservations
from sustenance
Which is: what you fed to me,
Which is what I,
Return to you
A thousand fold only in this promise, Time.
To Love.
To see past the lens.
To know you
As for what you are including all that came before
or left without
and however
may return after
Is Family:
This code
brought to me by instinct
and the not forgotten turn of a million ages.

When I cannot use my mind therefore
I turn to my heart.

And you there without wings,
Perchance may use your vision
To do the same thing.

Or if not,
We will carry you.



Click Here for Song and Video: Kilian Martin

8/31/11

Home


A litany of mirrors make this room seem larger than it appears.
Crosshatch.  Laser.    Tripwire.
Pound havoc:  storm, earth shudder.
Near and far away.
Pale ocean sigh dark angel closet night
taking shelter on the rooftop
on the island
in the stairwell of a dream,
inbetween
surrender.
Pool lit peering out of
beyond a thing in
paradise
a bird of
prey.
Partial ellipse of the moon.
Partake in
rituals
to make the time
Khyber-passage
These essential silences.


  

3/6/11

Einstein's Cliff


my understanding          of time altered
by perception       and       sensation of 
                                  you
correlating to a fixed point in space of
which there is no such true thing except
in the exception of relation to another
fixed and unfixed location of a thing
which brings me to formulate a certain
                           precipice
before which a multitude of undeniable
things are put to the edge of a question
and set to raise their own answers or
death.                   Such as permanence,
impermanence.               Creation and
destruction.   Such things as words and
understanding.       Communion and the
essence of a meaning unattached to
word but an isolated case like a solo
flight of white bird that hangs suspended
beyond the reach of the black night of
time and or gravity unseamingly
disintegrates in the presence of such
highly unmarkable things. such as you.

                                                  


1/17/11

Ashes to Ashes

I came  to realize that they were real;
that is to say they had arrived with purpose -
glimmer in the eye with trajectory, 
and then settled, and then stayed.
Running brooks shooting off from wild and unmarked river
into private woods,
and down the long and twisted bending line
tapering into offshoots, tributaries, streams, puddles,
-beached-
 drop or two of rainlet water
falling from once thirsty leaves.
Crowded around me like ghosts, shadows, bones and rustic jewels
of other pirates once on course.
Cramped like minions, crabs barreling over each other
not sure whether or not to find their way back to sea
but following the massive herd of moving limbs beneath their sideways feat.
Collections - meaningless.
Plastic bag blowing onto sidewalk in the grey sky street.
Once with belongings - ownership, owner and home.

A woman in her own dark forest
 touches the plant that is growing
on her windowsill.
How many times in one lifetime have you seen the sun?
How many times today?  And what of the moon?
She turns her lamplight, and a shadow to the room.

This is only a prologue to a temperament of sediment.
                                                                                                              

                                                 


1/1/11

Roku

The curve
while your back is turned
and the light a blue grey
I revisit
like a girl
and a basket of apples
in November
near the orchard
where it rains.


Song.                     

12/19/10

Anti-Theft


Colloidal slivers of iridescent blindness formulate
the space around me
creating Time the perpetual fugitive.
Palindromes running back and forth
inside my mind
is a sleepless ship teetering this way and that
on a quivering tightrope line;
                     Air, an aria.

I sat like stone and perfect still
prolific to and fro the traffic sound cacophany
visual antitheses of motorbikes, goats, rickshaws, cars,
horns, cows, and wagons
lions, loin cloths, and madness
make
the echo of a silent Tibetan bell
sounding only once
as you approach.

5 uncommon languages fail to translate
         
what your eyes
are speaking
with my eyes.

With these tiny hands
I built a cold dungeon made from the greyest stone
and there in the damp and quiet
did weave a blanket
made of thick and shiny metals, chains
to capture that one moment there within.

And yes, like a blue-eyed laughing beast
did the sea come rolling in
to call my fortress
some mere castle made of sands,
           and wash it all away.

All except for only the Absence
which could not be stolen
is the sun-shaped cutout
here in the center of my chest:
the sun fell from the sky that day
and burned a hole through my soul.
You do exist.




For the servant and the priest, the soulmate and the stranger, from MVG.
Song2
Song

8/29/10

Strawberry Love


love of strawberries started at first as simple
infatuation.
               This heart-shaped shape
emerging from dark and shapeless earth.
How could a curve so soft
carve its way out
from the heavy weight of a rock torn world
so deliciously?
Or unravel next to this spear of velvet green?
How could god's liquid dream
even imagine
to survive or exist
on a planet made so filthy
with
excuses?

What rain did feed it
and more
importantly
how
did it
manage the thirst?
What were the endless days
made of sun parched and alone
halfway between living and dying?

  Why wasn't anyone watching?

Who carried you
ungently from that field?
Which hands did shake you
from the earth, which
carts barrels bodies
did take form
to parcel out your space?

Who sold you to the masses?
What was the price that You paid?
How could these alphabet letters
or those dollar sign numbers
signify answers to any of these things?

No
wonder
why
you
are
so
quiet.

I took a knife in my left hand
and sliced you whole in my rite
palm.
piece by piece
the heart shape
repeated itself
over and over
again and again
until there
was nothing
left
but your red
ink
dripping
from my
fist.

i devoured you whole
and tasted
the
pain
of your death.

8/28/10

While You Were Away


When you were gone
the alphabet changed places
with the numbers and
time started echoing
differently.
Seasons burst open and interwoven
like black holes stitched into an
otherwise seamless tapestry.
Architecture melted
like candles with the sun,
my feat slipped upon
puddles of wax,
and everything that once did run
began to swim.
Snow started falling from my
            mouth.
Feather pens replaced
         ink cartridges
and needles
made for good post-it notes;
every single point in time
and place shifted;
matter made matter
that you have gone away.

<--> Clotho <--> Lachesis <--> Atropos <-->

7/7/10

HourGlass Soldier



Building your face with tattered
pieces of roses
forcing the garden to answer
to a silhouette
restraining the carefree fall of a petal
to the sharp arc
that draws from the height
of your left cheekbone
and dips into your chin
like heaven's parentheses
to etch, to grasp, to capture
the outer edges of your
uncontainably graceful slips
at the shoreline of
the places where your soul
crashes into your body
in this maddeningly
silent bolt of
enlightenment
without the
thunder

watching storm clouds
span across the limitless skies
of your iris
and you there caught
in the eye of the storm
in a black hole
as deep as night
swallows the day whole
and sinks into the
the farthest reaches of your
wartorn mind:

I find the shadows of
history
roaming over your site
like a curse
of blindness
at birth
is where you
learned
to fight
la lucha, la lucha,
flor y mi amor,
la vida es la lucha.




Song and Video (click here)

7/5/10

Protection



I could sit and write in the dark
in the place where danger
met me face to face,
repeating all the steps that
led me to that moment
and not even flinch
because of y-o-u.

Sea urchins are that spiky looking creature on the outside,
you said,
but on the insides - this is what is there.
Don't chew it,
just let it melt onto your tongue.
Like the words do,
in reverse.
In reverse
I could see patterns
slowly lifting with the fog
but who could say
which was the flower
and which was the seed
in fact

when I look at you,
the entire orchard
is already there.

With a sea on my plate
and endless fields of lavender and roses
seated across me at this table as my guest,
who would ever stop from being both
eternally roaringly hungry and completely full?
Ours is this sacred and homeless rite
in this vagabond garden of a feast on life
which you slice into parts like watermelon
and while I taste the seeds
growing in my tummy
I can feel it all becoming whole again;
the soil and the root and the rain
and the farmer's hand,
a hole in the ground
is where I came from
and Eden is what we're
becoming,
coming Home
again is a story
of finding sunlight
at the very crisp edges of darkness
and so we walk these dirty streets
in need neither of journey nor destination
just as the roots must do
as they burst beneath
the surface while
the whole world is sleeping.

I saw you close your eyes
when we stepped onto the forest
path of pitch darkness.
It was there that you taught me
how to see
with eyes closed.
It was you who took my hand
while the others only laughed.
I watch your face
meld from
tiger
to
dove,
tiger
to
dove,
And now knowing the absolute wonder
that you can be both,
I can only trust that I can be everything everything too;
even right next to danger's very own front door, with you.


Song1 (click here)
Song 2 (click here)








endless thanks to Mina Hu

6/13/10

Acute Pressure



Dear Dr Molsmon's
blue eyes were backlit.
Blacklit room square and sunken,
with me like a dart
board in the middle.
Light as a feather stiff as a rock,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
on a table, halfway between
the ceiling and the floor.
Tiny silver pinpricks -
chinese needles asterisks
mark the pain
I couldn't feel if I didn't look.
Make yourself so heavy that you are
dripping down like tree sap, slowly sinking
beneath the table into your own tree roots.
He said.
Was there something you forgot
to tell me?
No doctor, what we see is what we get.
  
Doctor, I haven't stopped unraveling
since that time.
Wherever stillness settles in,
movement mixes in my
body sepulchre chamber
for a phoenix
rising in heat and ashes -
mad thrashing wings
crashing into things
is what happens if
fire says she'd really
rather be water today.

Seated unseated,
setting and a rose,
these lines pulsing from a heart beat
up the spine accross the wingspan
and out the fingertips
dripping like warm a current
electric, soft glow.
Plug in, baby.
Mirrors melt as glass does,
so do I.
Be a dear,
caught in the forest,
not in the head lights.


Song2
Song


6/6/10

Stumbling On Clarity



                       white
           circles            strewn
       on                          the black
carpet                                 made
     me                              think
           in                     crop
                    circles:

Touching fingers.
This un-seaming.
If it weren't for the floorboards
I'd have sworn we were submerged -
Like flashes of silver inside
some warm and salty
          ocean,
swooning inside the surf
of tiny catfish chasing
the tales of their own bubbles.

Fluid
thought
afterthought
all
wet.

The pale pressure
of your REM
bleeding with my own.

Words
clinging speechless
like
dangling
stars

hanging from fishing lines
overhead;
no glass ceiling
but the great and slender
surrender to
nothingness
is the divide between
this world and
that,
meniscus,
the brief wooden
arc
of Neptune's canoe,
floating by
while the sea king
steals a summer
thunderstorm nap,
tossing and turning
in a dream
of  two lovers lost
at sea.

Finding my self
Lost in circles
there
with you
was as unexpected
as the sunlit globe
that hovered outside
that window
like
a second
coming.

I    could     rest    less
for                         ever
in                          sides           
these                   sorts                
of                              un
glass boxes with you.

4/19/10

Carotid Artery


Would you let me be a sailor?
Not the captain at the helm of this   
precious
Mission.
But the one who is seated in the corner
atop a broken barstool
inside the empty tavern
at dock.
Wrinkled,
and alone.
Would you let me sit
and taste that ocean for a spell?
The rain as it pelts on
half-open windows.
The waters as they speak to me.

May I be as broken as the broken
seat which I am seated on,
and still,
like a mountain,
made of many pieces,
not yet crumble?
May I share the silence
with you alone,
and no one else.

4/18/10

Scathing

                     

Power  
Lines
crawling through my muscle tissue
and I contemplate the potential energy
of release.
                     Nerve.
                   Nervous.
                   Minerva.

suddenly scathing bolts of lightening
conquer my flesh  s t  r    e    t     c     h
like Mission bells accross my mind
To blind my Chance
of Ever knowing my own Fate:  

                     Burn. 

Spaghetti string fly fishing
Lines
soaring back to you - Japanese Fighter Fish Kite,
Dynamite, my end of this tight tight rope.
Hand held fire sparklers
children laughing and
                     crush
Explosion
In my sternum.
Cavity. 

Cavern.  Deep and war torn
trenches
form a split
inside my cardium-
this barricade this heart.

Burnt.

Burning.

Oil fields.
I'll feel.
Red Fuel.
You.
You.

What words.
What place.
What wish.
What happened.
What never.
What will.

when.  where.  how.  why  why why
Not Now.  

Constriction is a means to my flow.
Air is freedom inside these corridors
of my floating fortress lung.
Inflates.  In case of emerge and see.
I admire. 
But cannot subscribe without some pulse.
Some may be hammer, and others,
Nail.
Price.
Paying
Sweet Price.  

Prayer.
I'll wear my smile the way you
wear garlic around your neck.

Something more than tears
is torn,
falls,
a part,
falls away
falls
amiss.

Your Miss




I





Miss








You.

Pride precious spaces preachers acquiesce.
Burn burn burning rolodex.
Time time ticking time bomb.
Past -
The bright bright blowout.
Left behind.
POWdER marks.

3/9/10

Author of Dream


Peering away at the surface, pixel by pixel.
Respecting the nature of the puzzle, puzzled.
Standing atop a cement block floating
between Nothing and Nothing, comes something, something.
Missing the Stranger who knew me, cell by cell.
Balancing on a weight of this somethingness,
made of nothingness,
a chip off a tower, a crumb of the moon,
of missing a piece, of missing you.
Timelines travel on rainbows of light to merge
with thought sounds which bloom in my head
like quiet explosions of springtime,  Aware
of the pulsing of promise that flows through my
being like whispers on water and puddles unseen,
only a dream,
only a dream,
passing and pushing and baiting and pulling
and barreled away inside petals of everything
peeling away and unfolding itself one passion
at a time.    A promise is this:    a kiss on the forehead.
An arrow of hope wrought with iron melted and
twisted and molded to bind hope itself into Knowing.
Loosing a language not born for such things,
secret codes crafted and carved and hidden
inside the predawn monaliths of night's most invisible ink.
To the moon:   Safe for Unveiling;
Accept for my presence, a sleepless path
surrounded by heavens and lit by starlight.
Ever so graciously playing with silence,
Tiptoe on rooftops and dance with the quiet.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    
* The Sower, Robert Park Harrison                                    
                                                                                                                                                                                                       

3/1/10

If and When Should Ever Want Want


If modern day gypsies were nomads,
and hearts were less mental than cyberspace,
I'd be this mover and this packer.

A hall labeled You-Haul would
host all of my most sacred possessions.
But I scraped my wrist on the packaging tape
while sealing off a box labeled with the letters
              h  o  p  e

I drew a map for your treasure hunt
made with palm lines and fingerprints,
and boxes were a part of this trajectory.
It is suggestable to live in codes.
Pieces of yellows, blues, and lavenders,
such a collision scope of confetti
to mark different measures in this path.

It will be a long ride, and a very tall order
in a giant-sized truck, fit for two,
but seating one.
And I'll be staring at the yellow line
that draws staccato down the middle
of you and back again.

Earthtones hit the pavement
when I start to remember how
to use the breaks.
Otherwise, everything is lined
in yellows, flourescent yellows,
effervescent marigolds between
an army of traffic lights, and you.

Poles witness the demise of rubber
planted dreams,
to most other eyes, remaining
unseen.
Which may be the fittest place;
not for you,
but for me.
But for me;
the world would go on
marching,
but for me.






2/20/10

Midnight Skin And Dawnbreak Heart

This earth is cloaked in the silence of more than a thousand
screaming stars,
and I do not wonder at how it shields itself
from roaring sunlight.
Oceans spill into my room from a leak inside the fine print:
blue ink is bleeding everywhere,
and the white cotton sheets pretend sky blue
in the summer of their cerulean stains.
Dali's enchanted clock marches in circles
with it's favorite second-hand.   And barely
this second stops at the foot of my bed,
takes a breath, and dives right in.
While Time takes a swim inside this watering hole of dream-filled night,
Tiny sailboats are born of the thoughts inside my mind's pretty iris,
emerging upon my eyelashes like Helen's great armada,
and set to sail upon the midnight air
like miniature question marks, these sailor's hooks,
to rescue the maiden clock and bring her back to land
by dawn again.

There is no wonder that my atoms take pattern
after the great beyond.
The landless land from where from where I originate-
this space-filled space from which I take my birth
is more than soil of earth and drop of water,
but a startlit pregnancy of  air, light, and magic
that bursts into silent formation paying hommage
to a secret like a lily in a moonlit pond
when no one is watching.
Standing at attention like great sunflowers born
upon the yellowing fields of their own green acclaim.
No-
my mother's womb was no fiery red,
it was blue,
bluer than night, blue as black,
black as the legions of space so black it uses stars as
breadcrumb marking points for pirates
roaming on these universally unlit paths.

While stars splash like notes of song inside
the darkness a witch's lullaby that puts the
world to sleep,
stealthily I creep in witness as the drumbeat
of my heart echoes the pulses of
these heavenly radiating orbs.
Just when I am sure that no one is watching,
I drop the cloak of fear which shields me.
It spills to the ankles of this knee-deep feat, and
my heart floats away like a red harp on
a raging sea of madly quiet gladness.
A procession marks my entrance point at sea,
little dipper arrows signal *follow Me*
I swim, I dive, I float, I wander
A thousand leagues beyond a nautical dream
and find an anchor in the shape of two bows,                   
and an arrow,
pointing back inside itself.
                                                  
                                                  

2/19/10

A Sea Of White


A sea of white light in the night laps upon the shorline
of the edge of my bed.
I am a continent.
Dreams divide my day from day,
I am
two hemispheres.
Atmospheric pressure
forms the cargo of my thoughts.
Lightening escapes the corners of my eyes.
Subconscious
was a different word to describe
the places where we all go,
when the moment is just right;
we
Take To Flight.
A sea of tires
becomes a sea of towers
I must climb,
and I am not tired.
If I could tell you everything
then I could give you everything,
but I am a Taker,
and also a Giver.

I am
We.

We are
everything
which passes
between us

in a dream, a memory, a glint of sunlight on a summer window:
this thing called Life.

I am already
the woman
in a rocking chair.

I am also
the child
on a rocking horse.

Mary
go round
the merry-go-round.
The man in the
Middle
is the one

Who pulls

the Light
Switch.