the edges of myself

words, words, words

I’ve spent years dancing around my writing practice. I’ve moved in fits and spurts through months of writing and months of silence. I’ve paid tribute sporadically to the scurrying stories in my head, and done my best to be nice to myself when I’ve kept those stories caged. I have made declaratives in hopes of …

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i don’t need to take pictures– your fluid image emblazoned in my mind feet gliding above the sand hands blossoming a golden lotus.   this seamless stretch¬†of time away from existing structures– free to explore new contours find new lines in the curves of our faces.   a deepening– realizing– acknowledging of what is and …

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there are poems in my bones words woven through and around the sinews of my muscles– verbose tendons and loquacious ligaments.   phrases which will their way to my mind– narrating an unfolding pathway– letters, lit up like lamp posts along a winding stretch   familiar monuments, comforting sentiments, breeding ease– an allowance; cultivating breath …

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