We are not machines.

We are not machines. Cogs. Production units. FTEs.

We are not brands. Channels. Entertainers. Memes. We are not what we see on TV.

We are not consumers. Buyers. Shoppers. We are not a marketing demographic. We’re not followers.

We are people. Beautifully individual, hopelessly small. We are complicated. Messy. Wrought. Nuanced with joy.  Impermanent and important.

{Poetry} Invisible

Today I am going to lay out in the sun
On my front lawn
– Naked as the day I was born-
Warming myself like a cat
And watching the neighbors pass by

I am going to wander around restaurants and park benches
And sit down with all the messy permutations of coupling there
Taking pictures and stealing dialogue
Immersing myself in others’ human condition
And turning honesty into art

I am going to take my lunch at the museum
On the floor,
at the foot of my favorite paintings
Slowly licking the last morsels from my fingers
And slipping into long conversation with
the artists’ best intentions

Why continue to waste such an exquisite opportunity
to be invisible
Still asking my children over and over to
Finish their homework
Brush their teeth
Or pick up their things?

{Poetry} Two Spaces

When I touch myself
the world shrinks
to a
a safe place of swift relief but

When I touch another-
when I am touched by another-
my world instead widens
to wrap itself and me around the cosmos

and I float

unraveled and cool and quiet
in the infinite space made visible.


{Poetry} Writer’s Contract

The rules of writing are not handcuffs for the writer
Nor a gavel for the reader

But a contract between them,
ensuring, respectfully,
as much as is possible, that
Two people, miles, years, and lives apart
Might sit down to tea
And share one’s ideas

Without the other
taking things the wrong way
so easily

{Poetry} Life Hack

Everything I read
the 8 steps to anything
– better hair, enlightenment, true love, my dream job, clean bowels –

lord, I am tired of bulleted lists to hack my life

I want the messy roar of a chainsaw
the wild whack of an axe at the base
the possibility found in the curious unknown

Screw the bullets;
give me a torch and let me blow my own mind wide open


{Peanut Gallery} Unmooring

It’s not age alone that focuses my recent navel gazing on the “what do I want?” question.

In some deep place, that question has sat idle for years; I’ve just haven’t allowed myself the opportunity to take it out of the box, dust it off, and use it.

I’ve dated men who I knew wouldn’t require it, or men who wouldn’t even want me to be asking such things. I’ve dated men who I knew “what I wanted” wouldn’t matter with, because I could not ultimately put my boat in the ocean with them. We would never travel that longitudinal line.

I have kept myself safe on the shore by never looking toward sea worthy ships- ensuring by pre-selection that the voyage offered was so personally perilous that I would not embark, not even set my foot off the pier, ensuring that the holes in the bottom of each boat were so large and deterrent I could never be sunk by the ones unseen.

But that ocean calls to me- lord, does she- and I finally feel ready to see where she will take me.

So I open the box, raise the sails, and ask, “what beautiful waters shall we explore today?”