Playdate at the Park

Oh how

I’ve always loved

my central park.

It never reminds

me of nature,

but brings me



(Photos of Balboa Park in San Diego)


Name, Rank, Serial Number

You’re first

unless she calls

or on Sundays

because then we see them.

She’s the best,

until I think of him,

remembering all those

languid days

spent alone in that room,

a long time ago.

much better than brunch

or sipping cocktails

and I can’t hear

over the roar

of the annoying dj.

I was priority

until I never called

or texted back.

The Columbus of Communications

who really did fall

off the side of the earth

and into my writing,

absorbed into stories

to deal with the feelings,

not comprehending

real people have

emotions, too,

and experiences,

until it’s my turn

to reach out

for connection.

And all I hear back

from you

are the echos

of my own



I Write Therefore I Am

Drink a cup of life,


and then go write it down.

Feast the eyes,

the heart,

the ears

on what your spirit

has been served,


or putrid.

It is all fodder for the mind,

growing words

and moments

which bloom into

the most beautiful


seared onto the soul

like a brand.

Fiery hot

from experience

or longing.

Don a dark coat and hat

and sit in the shadows,

becoming the

expert on human

mistrials and triumphs


lounge in a sunny cafe

with a pen and

an old fashioned,

coffee, water, whatever.

a fixed observer,

earnestly pursuing

the courage

it takes

to be fully alive.

But by all means,

keep writing.

Keep shouting

onto the page

with ink and blood

and snapshots

of those heightened


of pain, rapture, ennui, ritual, and contentment

which make us


that today

is a great day

to do more than

just merely



Frigid Bitch or Now I Know Why Dad Keeps His Vodka in the Freezer

After four decades,

I have a handle

on evading ‘

family drama,


the cold stare

or word vomit

of disapproval,

even though I’ve done

everything ever asked

of me,

and perfectly,

if I do say so myself.

And keeping a healthy


makes me evil,




Which is something

I just got comfortable

being called

from your

Lazy-boy, vodka tonic in hand.

Good riddance.

An ember only smolders

inside me

because you’re dying now.

And I wonder if

I should go to you,

if only one last time.

Frigidity is an act.

A fire

in an igloo.

But you’ve always hated

how brightly

I’ve burned.