9am to 9pm; Anacortes to the San Juan Islands and back. The weather is turning and so are the tides. When I’m wary of the waves I remember that the destination is fixed. And that the waves are what color the experience.
I want to travel and live life until the sun goes quiet and the people turn into their warm homes and then write about it when the hours are hushed and filled with muted tufts of blue light.
a poem is a still-budding string of words that you feel drawn to because they each have a pulse – a pulse that is both a heartbeat and a little light you see coming towards you like you would high beams on a street that is swamped by dark. you start with the pulse andContinue reading “a poem is”
summer makes writing a sin. outside, alone with your senses, everything is fresh and the pleasure peaks. you sit with a clean view of the open sky (between concrete mountains and wiry steeple tops) and the breeze fills your lungs with the colors of the mandevillas. park sounds massage your brain and dopamine soaks downContinue reading “summer”
myself, you, the person I passed on the street who smiled at me just as that sunset colored pressure was building inside of my torso (I was going to burst into shards of sparking glass on that sidewalk even though the music was stinging sweetly in my head, passing back and forth between my earsContinue reading “I love”