Sunday, September 30, 2007


In Japan, everything was small, except her. Descript and stingy streets leading to small posh but cramped living quarters. She wondered how anyone here could make love in a bed that barely allowed her to sprawl her legs over the edge.

She marveled at the lives of people spending their lives spent staring at sparse eggshell white ceilings.

She spent the first two days deciphering how to unpack all of her things and rearrange them so they fit in her tiny flat.

But Barcelona welcomed her Barcelona, which had the benefit of a beautiful Spanish style balcony,

Even the isles in the store Missing Bootsy’s banana pudding, she left the small streets and stores in search of an open air market.

There is only one way to tell if the if it ripe, he said.

Perhaps it was the way that he cocked his head. Or that his blacked palms reminded her of the overripe banana. Maybe it was his wide grin, open despite the missing teeth. Whatever it was it moved her. The marketplace glossed over with tears.

An awkwardly comforting wrinkled hand took hers, and patted it.

Suddenly, she knew.


Tuesday, September 25, 2007

two poems to get me writing again...


in the valley i found no water
except the lake of my own
unlived moments
will these dry bones

she's no good for him;
he says, like lyrics with no music
she plays a song with her eyes
by sight
but never by heart

the pen

this pen is a bittersweet
it loves like it writes
baking excuses
semi sweet