Toward High Noon

May 1, 2012

Egg yolk spilled across the sky three minutes earlier this morning, pooling over metallic blue in patches. As I trudge forward, sand screws up to my knees during long gusts to remind me that even in the desert I am not alone in waking. This is not a spiritual quest; this is not a nightmare, for that implies brevity. This is a purposeful challenge to that slobbering, scrap-iron pig, Death.

Wilted cacti already duplicate in periphery and my hands tremble over my pack’s straps. I will not spend energy thinking on this. I may survive. And I may die. But this fight is going to end with cold fists meeting dry metal.


Quickly Quotable #12 – The Little Prince (via My Literary Quest)

June 14, 2010

I quite liked this post by Literary Quest and I thought I might share it. The second quote especially pertains to the writer’s excruciating editing process. Enjoy :)!

Quickly Quotable #12 - The Little Prince It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye. Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away. Grown-ups never understand anything for themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them. Antoine de Saint-Exupery – The Little Prince … Read More

via My Literary Quest


Haiti: January 13th, 2010

May 28, 2010

Lord, long

have we walked toward your promised land, toward the foothills of your mountainous grace and glory.  For two hundred years, we have walked with locks snapped from between our feet, but still we feel the weight of iron as chains drag behind us like metal tails, pulling our heads under the dregs of life while white men swim in the clear water above us, looking as far off as the sun.  We are drowning, Lord.  You birthed us without buoyancy and though we fight with powerful arms to reach your heavens, we remain at the bottom of life’s pail like black smut suffocating in familial ashes.  Give us something, Lord, we pray.  We believe in your presence and your righteousness, Lord, that one day you will make us irradiant phoenixes, burning high among stars and our black skin will glow with your divine solace like night.  But today, 40,000 families are dust and embers, Lord.  And our buildings blaze like matches.  They splinter under our feet.  So I ask, in desperate repetition:

What do we do now, Lord?

Where do we go, Lord?

What do we do now?

Where on earth do we go?


O, Happy happy happy! (How happy am I to-day?)

May 25, 2010


I’m so happy!
The sun shines and the flowers bloom!
The Lord be praised for there’s nothing happier than
to-day’s happy day.

Press a gun to my temple and let petals
burst from the warm barrel and
penetrate me
with smiles and roasted marshmallows!

O, how I giggle at the men of the past:
Neanderthals, Victorians, Bohemians, and, too,
the muslims, buddhists, atheists, and
jews and blacks on this happiest of happy
Christian days!

My insides float in warm strawberry jam.
O, happy day! Is there no end to the good
that glides over the world like peach syrup?

Thailand is blooming!
Louisiana is singing!
Koreans are holding hands!
Ethiopia is laughing!

Who could tear through my impenetrable, faith-full
ballistic vest of happiness?
Who could wring the happy perspiration
from the bright underpants of life to-day?

Together, let’s walk unafraid
through the flowering minefields of happy.


Night, Fall

May 22, 2010

Fine grooves split down the shells of refulgent embers, carving outlines of Halloween teeth into blackened wood, and spheres of tangerine held in your eyes like dry planets while water stole up the sand to make negatives of our toes. Lying back, the smell of marshmallows and ash filled our noses and stars clumped and circled overhead like a halo stretched over Earth. I said something about not being able to see the leaves changing color and we laughed at our seriousness. With an exhale, we closed our eyes as freckles of red danced over us like fireflies.



Black Wheels Under Red Paint

May 19, 2010

Sirens pounded in my head as I leapt up from the shattered glass table I didn’t see. Pops was carrying the heavier bags and ran ahead down the dark and empty street. “They ain’t gon’ come quick enough. Haha, we good. We good,” he whispered to himself while I limped behind. After an hour, we made it under the Jenson bridge and unpacked the goods in our bags to wheelbarrows. My leg was cut up and bleeding. It stung like someone was taking a cheese grater to my calves, but I kept packing and lay black tarp over the loot. “You ever think this’s wrong?” I asked as pops lifted the rubber handles. The rusted metal dug back into the mud and pops squeezed my jaw. His eyes were flat, like manhole covers, and he started talking like he was reading from a book. “Morality is optional,” he said. “And we opt out a long time ago.” He let me go and we got going down the moonlit trail. As the handles of my cart bounced in my hand over the gravel, I thought about what he said and couldn’t shake the feeling that what he really meant was that we’ve never had many choices and damnit this was the best one.


Summer’s End: August 22nd, 1978

May 16, 2010

We sat between goalposts, picking grass until egg yolk broke across the sky and the whites clumped lazily together, sliding above us. Slowly, wooden castles, recycled tires, and rows of buttercups stepped out of hiding to see God’s flaxen hair swing gently over the soccer field. Our hands fit together like zippers with bits of green pressed in the heart of our palms like petals drying into memory between pages.