Jan 02


A frog
A boy
An old man

(Boy playing with LEGOs. He builds a tower)
FROG: Hi, boy.
BOY: Hi, frog.
(Boy continues playing. Frog approaches.)
FROG: I need to go on a walk.
(Boy ignores him)
FROG: I need to go on a walk. You need to take me on a walk.
(Frog approaches and touches the tower of LEGOs)
BOY: Don’t touch! (annoyed)
FROG: Take me on a walk!
BOY: No!
(Frog turns away, but then suddenly turns back and destroys the tower)
BOY: Hey!
FROG: Take me on a walk!
BOY: Fine.
(Old Man enters stage left. He leans on a walking stick)

OLD MAN: Hi, boy.
BOY: Hi, old man.
(Old Man comes closer and slips and falls on the LEGOs)
OLD MAN: What was that? (panicked)
FROG: LEGOs. (sourly)
BOY: Come on, frog!
(Boy and Frog exit stage left)
Dec 26


You tell me what you see.

​I see. I am a king.

A king. I see.

Don't you see?

I see.

You see, this mound is my castle. This gold, my crown. 

But sir, that is a pebble and that

​the heart of a young dandelion. 

You tell me what you see.

​I see.


Dec 26


in the plastic box
of metal spoons,
dull gold and sterling
​dusted moons - 
​a half-broken wooden paddle.

​a half-broken wooden paddle 
​ - still stained with the juice of that italian ice you scraped into your red lips
so sweet - 

Dec 06


Again, I hold the nautilus in my hand. My fingers trace its spotted streaks, and carefully lift it to my ear. What do I hear?
I don’t breathe, waiting for that undeniable moment of today to make itself known. The hot rush of life, the frantic chaos of a steadily disappearing bedroom floor, the delete delete delete button on the laptop tapping tapping tapping, stills. I lean long against the empty bookshelves, empty dreams, and feel the cartilage of my ear against the hard calcium of pink. What do I hear?

Some say that when they listen into the heart of the nautilus, they hear the murmur of distant waves. Some - the poets among us - say it is a memory of a promise long forgotten. Others tell me they hear death. It was a wet-eyed girl who said that. Others.
Nov 28


Crinkle creak of golden sheet
Tattooed tail of tearing ink
I think
The drink
Of fable fiction

For now
We open wide wishing whisper wonder -

What story
So stored,
Can you grab,
In your heart,
Hot and heavy
when you forget that part
You promised not to remember,
Crinkle creak of golden sheet . . .
Nov 25


dear honey dear
this should be
has to be
must be
dear honey dear
just can't be

So many times we hear

And all we think is
just let it be
its hortatory form of existence
Nov 02

not just

math is not just computation
though sensation
Of duration
Bring frustration

math is not just computation
Though notation
In formation
the foundation
Find vexation

Math is not just computation

It’s libation, pure elation
Hyperbolic constellation
geometric exaltation

Oct 19

you are not alone

Sep 24

A Conversation of Sorts

On a table, facing a large window, two persons of differing character find themselves in the ridiculous circumstance of being together.

Said the pen to the pencil, “How well you collect dust with that frown of yours.”

“I’m tired.” The pencil rubbed its nose and coughed. “I’m sick.”

“Sickness because of exhaustion or exhaustion because of sickness?”

The pen placed a cold hand on wood. It had bright eyes and a voice of marble and quartz. It was the fountain pen of the philosopher with black whiskers. It knew quite a few things.

“When was the last time you contemplated your existence?”
Sep 14