"...to enclose the present moment; to make it stay; to fill it fuller and fuller, with the past, the present and the future, until it shone, whole, bright, deep with understanding."

Virgina Woolf, The Years


Fail to resist

a restless curiosity
an urge to investigate 
and discover
the ellusive places
where we meet nature
where she plays on our senses
with colors and forms
perfumes and smells
the taste and touch
of salty wind on the tongue

but much of nature is hidden from us
that we can neither see nor touch

(it's the sparkle you become
when you overcome anxiety)

[Text: Björk's Biophilia]



Todo atardecer tiene la cualidad de pintar con una tenue pátina dorada el ser de todas las cosas. O, tal vez, todo atardecer tiene la cualidad de revelar la tenue pátina dorada que se esconde detrás de todas las cosas. Incluso del aire.

Con toda seguridad en algún país, o en alguna religión, los habitantes y fieles detienen toda actividad y honran el breve misterio con devota fascinación. 

Con toda seguridad ese país, esa religión, han creado un nombre para reconocer ese fragmento del atardecer.


Alice dreams

Alice dreams of a time
the Queen knew just where it's at 
The flowers even sing
Well, her friend the caterpillar said
Don't you think it's time
to use some of your mind?

Alice's dream: Juri Hayasaka
Song & lyrics: Donovan


Medicine Wheel

I see a picture that interweaves in tapestry
with color threads and oyster shells and baby beads
Protect us from a foggy view
Medicine Wheel remind us now that we'll go through
'Cause it takes the colors we each hold
to make that wheel that we'll design, that we'll design
to make that wheel that we'll design, that we'll design


Cielo y quietud

Mis ojos ven la crueldad
pero no la dejan pasar
son de agua
limpian la verdad


Not exactly forbidden

I am always hungry
& wanting to have
sex. This is a fact.
If you get right
down to it the new
unprocessed peanut
butter is no damn
good & you should
buy it in a jar as
always in the
largest supermarket
you know. And
I am an enemy
of change, as
you know. All
the things I
embrace as new
are in
fact old things,
re-released: swimming,
the sensation of
being dirty in
body and mind
summer as a
time to do
nothing and make
no money. Prayer
as a last re-
sort. Pleasure
as a means,
and then a
means again
with no ends
in sight. I am
absolutely in opposition
to all kinds of
goals. I have
no desire to know           
where this, anything
is getting me.
When the water
boils I get
a cup of tea.
Accidentally I
read all the
works of Proust.
It was summer
I was there
so was he. I
write because
I would like
to be used for
years after
my death. Not
only my body
will be compost
but the thoughts
I left during
my life. During
my life I was
a woman with
hazel eyes. Out
the window
is a crooked
silo. Parts
of you
I think
of as stripes
which I am
learning to
love along. We
swim naked
in ponds &
I write be-
hind your
back. My thoughts
about you are
not exactly
forbidden, but
exalted because
they are useless,
not intended
to get you
you love
me. It’s more
like a playground
where I play
with my reflection
of you until
you come back
and into the
real you I
get to sink
my teeth. With
you I don't know 
how to relax &
so I write
behind your
back. Which
is hard.
is out of control
you tell me &
that’s what’s so
ill about
it. I’m immoderately
in love with you,
knocked out by
your one
white hair
why should
I had never
known be the
very best there
is. I love
you from my
starting back
there when
one day stopped
being just like the
rest, sudden 
bond and
longing, constant
love, a light-
ning in the
middle of
the day,
a halted step
in the vastly
path of
the Sun. I
squint. I
wink. I
before I
take the
Retailored version of Eileen Myles' “Peanut Butter”


Poem written during you-me

A photograph
on the back of a hand mirror 

resembles someone you knew 
who sang themselves utterly away. 
It cannot touch you
or the sound of the rapids.
Leave it, and walk farther 

crawling up my leg
to find me all smiles
attached to nothing.
You and I can stay
in the morning dew.
My little telephone
in the mulberry fields
going unanswered
on that blade of grass.

Poem written with Basho, by Matthew Rohrer