A Change of Mind

How I will live an extrodinary life with a sick and injured brain.

I’ll write it out until I figure it out

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Where I Came From: Part I.

I am from a lot of places;

delivered from the sky.

City born from valleys and

mountains. United Airlines

raised me up out of rural orchards,

and home was found in my landing.


I toddled through the Rockies,

suckling stones, swaddled in the

Pacific coast. My heart split; divided

between Sierra Nevada flame flowers,

and Great Plains in a colorful state.


I cut a tooth on hard times, just

a plateau, as I began my crawl through

Death Valley. My footing took when

I took flight; that first step off a plane

is always a new birthing.



This old house speaks of the cold. Mortality raises senses with the setting of the sun; sharpened to pierce dark places. Old pipes sing; hymns echo through bowels of hollow walls. Subtle creeks and cracks; the letting out of a breath sound alarms. Things seen in shadow unravel memories spread like a rug under the bed; placed to buffer a fall. It is easy to get tripped up like this.

Mansueta Tene

A boy runs alongside trains searching for some perfect spot. Once a cart halts his pace is found wielding aerosol hues in his own words. He says, “This is fun and exciting”; to tag a thing. Typically in haste he scratches on his personal signature. A name and style; radically deemed true art. Though an artist, lately he became open -ended; much more just an “ist”. He attaches meaning and intention however he wishes. Today, to write with a heart marked the end of her name. This is a piece who takes time; must be handled with care, but he scribes quickly to avoid being caught. If she sees, black ink will run down her cheek; swivel down her breast as calligraphy upon his walls.   


Raven beasts circle me these days; wars wage high in redwoods enveloping my nest. I like open windows; it is my hope to let out this last breath. Yet, these vultures scream into me, and I lock my door.


All those years; chapters set

within sections after the

foreword enters my prelude.

Pieces of narrative; sweet

and spicy like Mexican candy

I easily overindulge in;

so I never bought it.

Other lines horrify and

knot up my insides.

Characters as tart venom;

vomit strung off

cracked lips, cleared off

with towels beaten over

my head.

The climax reads too long;

tedious, it must be offset with

some conclusion. I will edit in

acknowledgements, and perhaps

an index of terms I may not

remember I once used.

Afterword, when all these

things find the end, I will

shelf this story.

I have known many

good books.

Can I Learn the Ways You Speak

I appreciate your very dark skin,

and all the ways you speak.

More than that; I fixate on how

a sort of turquoise tempera paint

clings to parts of who you are.

There is a way about your

work where your shirt smells of leather,

polyurethane, and





The Song

There is music I always prefer hearing several times back to back; though agitating, as I suspect strong feelings and ruminating concepts colonize my soul. Some sounds seem worth an invasion. I yield to the lyrics: order all senses lay down their arms and fall to the floor belly up. Inviting some new tune inside; a fangirl begs all be at once satisfied.

Without Saying

A heart beat

goes without saying;

obviously people in love

recite feelings out


Sometimes my heart races

for fear or inclination;

words run


However mute, I truly am stuck

with my head to your chest;

listening to know if our

hearts will speak for


We Could Both Die This Way

Dying is another way your life determines how I choose to live. Death being the obvious avenue in passing I can learn we have always been alive.

Handling of affairs and holding your cold molten hand obliterates illusions as trite titles; like mother and daughter.

Absent a war or simple brave thought; I administer peace in a syringe placed under your tongue.

A death that journeys through me as eternal life; absorbs my demise within acoustics of sweet death’s rattle.


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