Well time is on for new year's resolutions. I'm making some that not only I'll benefit from but that I'll embrace the joy of achieving. Eating smaller amounts of healthy, tasty food (instead of whatever's cheapest and biggest) with hours apart between meals. Writing a poem every day for that day (instead of just random stuff I'll make it more to the live-in-the-moment than before) and making a book of poems from it. Finishing Moon Mist Valley. Continuing the Artifact and Poet's Espresso. And wri… Continue

I've decided it's a good idea, an idea that was passed on to my from a good friend Roger, that I base a book either of poetry or a novel on the themes presented in one of my favorite books or from one of my favorite role-models. I've decided the book to use is a work of science fiction, "The Integral Trees." How I will progress through the next year is I shall proceed to go through it a chapter at a time and then write a chapter in my novel and work it over until I'm satisfied with the parallel… Continue

Saying goodbye to another piece of my childhood When I was just a boy there lived in the country a Chinese couple in an old-fashioned farm house. Their property was a labyrinth of solemn pines and wild hedges. But what I remember most is the incredible pomegranate trees I frequently stole from. Overloaded with ripe fruit like blushing virgins begging to be opened and sucked. Twenty years later I stand across the street from that place beholding the aftermath of condemnation and construction eq… Continue

The gift It was 1853 in a small village when beauty in all of its perfection was given a ((((voice)))) but no one would >>>>listen<<<< not even his closest friend so he cut off a piece of his ear wrapped it in a cloth then ran to a brothel and gave it to a [] [] [] [] []

A winter night at Orange Grove The laundry room is closed and the steam of dryers gone. The Christmas lights in an upstairs window dark. I stand out here smoking, pebbles I can’t see popping beneath my shoes. A dead woman haunts the walkways, a trail of blue smoke . . . . Not even death has stopped her from peeking in windows, her silver hair caught by a wind I can’t feel. Earlier today, vegetable oil leaked from a garbage bag and into the concrete. The stain leaps at me from the darkness.