Posted in Art, Poetry


The Broken Bridge and the Dream, (excerpt) Dali, 1945

sitting in my favorite chair

wandering mind -curious

wondering how i got so far

away from home.

Posted in Poetry

each puff of smoke

blown his way

changes shape

she plays the role

dresses his soul;

he’s unsure who

she is anymore

exhales her ghost

sends her away

to haunt the day.

Posted in Poetry

she never remembers

no matter -how

many times did you tell her

you love and adore

the way she loves you back?

she always tells you

her disease possesses

the curved back, spread

skies and deeper still

the open thighs. no matter,

you have lost her eyes

as she asks for the night

wrapped in television screen

of what might have been

between you.

Posted in Poetry


a brisk start

rapid steps -toward

pushed forward

crashing clang

hush subdued

Plover approach

skitter days -search

what’s left behind

(Day Three of White Sands)

Posted in Poetry

Open the curtain -a little more

you dug your hand in, pulled

left -abandoned on the floor.

Not sure i believe the sun anymore.

Posted in Poetry

That be you -empty. Burns chosen to decorate the body’s walls.

Her paint peels off; removes the scars. Bones so fragile her skin slips down.

Everyone leaves her -emptier.