Like a coyote, I promise

I did my job,

I held up my end of the bargain, and I held on tightly to the other end of the rope.

I weathered the moon and the stars and tides, and it was furiously beautiful.

Something can be said for weathering the weather,

keep that in mind,

Quicksand isn’t as dangerous as the movies make it seem,

keep that in mind,

but I would still step over it.

I will always step over it.

I will however stop to pick up fallen bird nests and I will not devour any unbroken eggs like some carnivore I will call them on my own and one day I will release them to the sky and I will cry and twirl your hair to console myself when they do  fly away because they are gone well past the sunset.

I will continue to  write run-on sentences and I  will watch them disappear with the birds I rescued and subsequently released,

                              just have your nets ready, please.

I broke my back, and ran my fingers through my hair, and what do I have to show for it?

besides my insides spilling out like in a horror movie and  a haircut that doesn’t even look that much different then it did before?

A net with a bird shaped hole in it?

Some thoughts with holes in them, too?

You should have just gone fishing…

that’s what this is all about,  a haircut and some misspelled words, and so many questions….

Am I talking to loud?

Is this easier to read in italics?

                                                 How long can I stare at this screen before I go blind?

I still have so many questions about

the similarities between octopi and cacti…

aside from the syllables, the domain, the vertebrae or lack-there-of, and the fact that one coexists with coyotes,

I will howl with them,

               I am one of them.

                                                                               I can howl with the best of them,

leave me  out with the blowing wind and laundry that didn’t dry all the way, let me gnash my teeth and growl at nothing.

Light me on fire, I will burn for everyone, for those in my ears and for those who are already asleep,

I will burn for you, too,

I will wake up early for you, too

I will run over the hills for you, too.

My hands hurt from holding this rope so tightly, so  please,

                                                I would like to let go now

Let me go, and I will fall like an angel,

                          there will be no belly flops or swan dives,

                                   we are not even sure this is the deep end…

Put away your nets and your outstretched arms and the trampolines, too.

Send in the clowns, we could all use a laugh.

                         I will fall,

       like an angel I, promise,

                                                                    like a coyote, I promise.



I have the head of a writer

I have the head of writer,

                                       but the thumbs of an ogre,

burning because the keyboards have never known them,

I don’t know them.

It is dark in the garage and only the light from the dryer when you leave the door open allows you to see anything,

                               maybe I can get to Narnia from here,

I can probably get to Narnia from here.

The grass and the floor here  feel different then they did last week,

when I knew this wasn’t permanent ,

when I knew it wasn’t this shade of green,

all the music and the wine and the scars are not permanent anymore.

                    We will find fuller moons,

and windy nights,  and other moving parts,

                 along with more square feet and more room for mistakes,

                                                   along with so many swords stuck in my very own back,

I must have put them there,

I forgot they were there.

It is not the worst thing that they are there,

                                                                   in my back.

 The trinkets on the shelves, and the binoculars  I left on the top of a mountain,

I guess the floor feels different here , and the grass feels about the  same.

This place always plays the same movies, and these same mountains move in the same ways,

The stage feels sturdy enough but I can hear the audience  breathing,

at least they are alive, even if they are a  familiar  shade of green.

It all feels like glass to me,

the mountains,

the audience,


the movies,

cold like glass under my feet.

be careful during your monologues,

                                    and watch your step during intermission on your way to the bathroom. 

Remember your seat number, because I sure wont.

I am present for   the conversations but do not participate and the   talk of the choir is always  more important then what I have to say  but I can tune it out most of the time, and just focus on the television,

just focus on the television and be a vessel,

I am the choir,  and a ghost///////

I have the head of a writer, and nothing is permanent,

and the television is getting louder now,

like someone knocking or tapping on the glass that is so cold to me,

tap              tap                tap                     tap 

The grass feels about the same on this side of town.

                                                                  but I am still so cold,  and  I am still  made of glass,

I    will  always be the audience,

I will always be a lion,

                               and  I  will always be this familiar  shade of green.




So many matches

I can feel the headlights approaching too,

                        quickly, like in the books.

I can feel the heat on the back of my neck,

from the sun and from the headlights,

I am as sure of the headlights just as I am sure of the voices that echo throughout the caves,

singing voices,

raspy voices,

voices buried so deep inside,

under glacial  craters and  smoldering funeral pyres,

buried within the  blowing meadows and cowlicks of your hair,

your beautiful hair,

The voices buried so deep you cant barely make out the  original motives,

ulterior or otherwise…

Everyone is pointing at everyone,

even the voices on the radio,

especially  the voices on the radio,

Coming up to the surface now,

like a bubbling muck,

or an emerging tick,

like mountains not yet born,

not  far from where the fireworks are,

not far at all.

And in these moments,

and in these cages, 

and when I am caught in thunderstorms,

I have to slow down.

Catch my tongue   and my breath and my mind too,

collect them in a net with other  tadpoles  and tidbits and let them free in water that is not their own.

                                               I take on more water like a sinking ship,

so that I will melt away quicker.

The rain may wash me away but I’ll be better for it.

I will explode like the sunrise,

and like those far away fireworks.

I will roll out like a red carpet, for  only you to walk on,

walk all over me, so that  your feet don’t touch the ground.

I will be laid out for eons,

and the stars will be over me and the dust will collect on me,

and when I roll over to get more comfortable,

I will become a precursor to myself, until a I roll over again in my sleep.

                           walk all over me,

so that I know you are with me.

That final book of matches, purchased so long ago,

still light when struck,

But now we are on our final book of matches, and they still strike if we try

if we wish hard enough,

 but the matches are running out,

and we are running out of uses for the remaining  matches,  and we are running out of time, and out of  the matches themselves.

I cant stand to see the candles around the house not lit,

                                      I cant stand to see the cupboard empty,

I cant stand to see you empty

                                           I cant stand to see all these lights going out at once,

We only have so many matches left,

please leave the light on, there are only so many matches left.

please water the plants,  they are dying too.












You can sit up now,

you have landed,

                                                                       in someone else’s  arms or in a net I am not sure,

and now you can feel the rattle of your bones.

             You were a human cannonball,

full of gunpower and shrapnel,

We all waited with our ears covered,

                                                                             and all you gave us was a  small splash,

and virtually no reason to clap.

You didn’t stick the landing, but you still had something we didn’t,

no one did,,,

your bones.

your bones

your bones

Read over the bones, and feel better now that you know what’s in them,

Rip out pages and diagrams of them and stick them on your walls,

know them like your know your favorite sports drink,

or  the layout of your favorite buffet.

Study them under a microscope,

                    and name them after yourself.

                                                                                                       your foot was here first,

your flag was here first,

you found them first and they are your bones.

When you sleep they are still your bones.

When you were  young and were fired out of that cannon they were still your bones,

even when they break into a million cosmic pieces,

and are swept under the rug,

              they  are after all,

still your bones.

still your bones.

still your bones.

                                                                                your foot was still here first,

your flag was still  here first…


Waking up in the air

And to be carried away like that,

                                                                     first thing in the morning,

is really something.

 On the wings of angels, or in the grasp of talons,

                                               without first having checked the local weather,

without first brushing your teeth so hard your gums began to bleed,

just so you didn’t have to floss, 

just so you could lie to the dentist and tell them that  you do floss.

Without first having stuck your toe in the water,

Without first checking to see if it was quicksand or regular sand.

The waiter hasn’t even stopped by your table yet, you haven’t even seen a menu,

and you never will,



not at this height.

to be carried away, in such a way,

                                                   is flightless,

                                                 is fruitless…


                     Hold on to your treasure, tightly.

Secure it and put it on trial, litigate for and against your treasure,

                    Bind it’s legs and arms,

It will fight like a champion, but you’ll secure it.

And you can try and carry it back to your colony,

back to the church service and everyone is waiting for a baptism and everyone is dressed in pinks and greens and yellows.

Roll the stone away, you will need to wait your turn.

Roll the stone away and be careful not to get any dirt on your pants.

Don’t ask me or any of the watching animals with flashlight eyes to help.

Our faces will tell you all you need to know;

Our hands are tied and we are busy learning about what makes up a waterfall.

There are instruction manuals for that kind of thing,

you should know, you wrote  most of them.

                     The clock is ticking slower now, it must be running out of batteries,

Don’t worry I left some in the nightstand I think,

they may or may not be dead,,,,,

you may or may not be dead,,,,

Leave them in the nightstand,

trap the lighting and the thunder in there too, if you can.

                                  The clock is  practically saying nothing now,

Next to boisterous  masks and other important pictures  that never got their place in the sun,

although they had some pretty great speaking parts,

I loved that one where everyone was over weekend drinking wine and laughing

 and laughing

 and laughing.

Your treasure is what is important here,

Your soft treasure feels like a heart, and it’s beating rapidly

Sink your teeth into it, like a vampire,

(like a parasite)

and leave it behind,

(unlike a parasite)

                        but after you do you must get out of sight,

hideaway for the night,

hideaway from the night.

Morning will break and you’ll be better for it.

Stretch your arms out across the universe and remember your treasure,

remember where you left it to die.

                        It will still be there, like the rest of  them,

the rest of everything, the treasures and the tombstones and the autographs, and the car wash tokens, the laundry all over the floor.

It is especially hard to differentiate the quarters from all the car wash tokens.

They all end up in the same place anyways,

plastered in newspapers and written in the sky and under vending machines,

                             take it with you over the hills,

in broad daylight let them see you carrying your treasure with long legs like springs and the sun breaking on your back,

they will know you are the champion.

They will see you sidestepping landmines and broken lightbulbs to get to the coast,

to get to the edge and peek over, throw a stone down there and see if you hear it drop.

You have made it to the high dive,

and you wont even hesitate,

even with everyone watching,

                    and  you’ll break into a swim,

leaving the cities behind,

leaving the fanfare behind,

leaving a trail of blood behind.

It is here you’ll become young again, spraying water from your mouth like a dolphin,

spray it into the face of your treasure and it will open its eyes,

if only slightly and know that it is safe.

Talk to your treasure as you float on your back,

talk to your treasure as you begin to sink,

                                                           you  are sinking because of your treasure,

the label didn’t say anything about  that though,

and there were plenty of spelling errors, too.

But you knew how heavy that treasure was,

your back is sore from it, and the water in which you sink  lets you forget that,

as you descend,  slowly like a jellyfish,

                                        slower then your used to,

You are leaving your spine and your halo and your wings behind,

                             your luggage too,

and the airbags never  even deployed.

Your treasure is already out of sight, probably resting  somewhere at the bottom,

waiting for you, with it’s elbows on the table,

waiting for you to blow out the candles,

                                         waiting for a head on collision.









I am no longer seventy percent water,

                               The oceans no longer run through me,

I am no longer a chess piece lost in the sand,

                    and I am perfect in the sun,

                                                                   in the sun I am perfect

and barefoot and can feel all my bones, too.

I can feel the wind and you should, too.

I can hear that clicking sound,

It could be an airplane, or fingers clicking tirelessly on a keyboard,

I know where words come from and I watch them walk into caves with their heads down,

I don’t know what that sound is, and I wont pretend to either.

I’ll hear it and catch it and I will watch it intently in the confines of a jar,

                                       Let it grow or die before my eyes,

before I lose interest in something as trivial as a phonebooth with no phone attached.

                       This obsession with ghosts wont get you very far,

stand idle and grow with the weeds!

 Be apart of the concrete, or the quicksand or the mountain.

Your surrounded by a fortress built by someone else, for someone else,

                             someone who was here before you were here.

Stand in the middle of all of it,

and hear the plates crash on the kitchen floor, someone will have to sweep it up,

but it wont be you,

it wont be you.

Standing in the middle of eternity with your arms out,

under a lush canopy of stars and gravity and other space junk.

Petting sleeping dogs, and watching fountains erupt like volcanoes.

You can try to hide upstairs,  but those heights aren’t  yours, either.

 And those heavens aren’t yours either,

                                                         What’s in the cupboard, isn’t your either.

You’ll lose your breath, but you’ll get it back.

I’ll give it back to you.

                        your heirlooms too, but for now they are locked away..

Here is some water so you can be fluid again,

but only so I can see my  own reflection in you.

You are my mirror, and  now I can see everything that goes on behind me.

                This is for the houses built next to the highways,

It is for you too, I didn’t forget.

and for  the sleeping dragons also,

and  for the fountains that erupt like volcanoes.

May  you  all get some sleep  among the passing cars and circling buzzards,

may you all find a way to climb up  and over those walls,,,,,