We’ll Always Have Quito

Even though some trysts tend to end up

as nothing, writers,

as lovers,  can make you immortal.

And painters, thank god, can keep

you forever young.


It’s Called a Dance Floor, and Here’s What It’s For

In all the history,

I’ve studied

and witnessed

and read about,

I’ve never seen

any debts being settled

in a dance fight

or a dance off

and I wonder

what I’m doing wrong

that everything

in life ends with

raised voices

or defeated compromise

instead of using my


on the dance floor


my fellow

dance villain.

Shut Up and Write

We all come from broken childhoods

neglected, tormented, lonely, discouraged.

We’ve all lived through certain heartbreak

tragic melancholy, hope irreparably shattered

We’ve all suffered through loss and

inundation. Life is too much, often,

and disproportionately.

Yet this doesn’t make us average,

or even mundane.

Most people find the strength in themselves to

conquer these mountains,

but we summit these experiences

and feel compelled to tell the stories

until the hurt seeps out of us

and we can write

our own new endings.


As she lay dying

I understand

that I can’t be

the reason she lives for.

She has to fight through

this on her own,

finding her own reason

to keep those old hands working,

that weary heart to beating.

And I, too, must search

now, to find my reason

to be here.

One that doesn’t include

spending my life

seeking her love,


Ginger Snapped

Sources claim that it was a combination

of starvation and syphilis that brought

the red hair among the Celtic nations,

not the Viking conquests, which was

the previous rumor. So I suppose

the end result of going home

at the end of the night with the red-headed

fiddler from the Irish pub will be the same:

conquest or maybe syphilis,

but least likely, starvation.

Anaflactic Vanilla

How does the life I live

and the privileges I’ve had

keep others enslaved and



How is it that I can use

my small voice in the

world overtaken by the uncaring,

the apathatic,

to throw a motherfucking wrench in

the wheels of the mighty system

which oppresses and demeans

some while benefitting few,

stopping it quicker than me and the

kids down on San Pablo can yell,

“Uluru!” And mama in the back

sings Kumbaya.


My aunt and uncle moved

into a gated community

in a very wealthy suburb,

presumably to keep the brown

people away from their

precious Lexus, expensive golf clubs.

they had the good sense, though,

to give the spare keys

to the brown people who go right

through the gate

and do the lawn and laundry,

they are not willing to do

in their very busy schedules.