At times I discipline myself to write regularly, other times I write randomly. 

 Poems and stories appear in my head, clamoring to be written down,

even if it's the middle of the night and I have to get out of bed and

find pen and paper, and then trip over the cat.  In dreams, I see places

 I've never been, people I've never met, but I know them...

will they ever know me?

                       empty skies, empty spaces

               (the bag lady’s lullaby)

               in my mind now

               if i go far enough

               i can see

               empty skies, and empty spaces...

               no telephone wires

               cut across my thoughts.

               no paved roads with metal signs

               offer me directions and choices.

               buildings do not hold me

               in false shelters.

               in my mind now

               if i stay long enough

               i can feel

               empty skies, and empty spaces...

               no promises reverberate against ceilings.

               no doors keep closing.

               the floor does not speak in footsteps.

               in my mind now

               are

               empty skies, and empty spaces...

               i am not lost.

downtown is dead (killed by the mall)

(the bag lady's lament)

standing on the sidewalk

cement flows by me,

and all the empty store windows

dance.

i don't know who i am.

i have no home now.

what i have forgotten is dead.

what i remember is only lines (directions?)

and i don't believe in time.

i sing.               (all notes are one.)

            i hear.              (sounds can't listen to voices.)

                        i fight.               (cold rain melts paper bags.)

                                    i write.              (misspelled words, unread, don't survive.)

i design.           (even the houses have bones.  the wallpaper skins are shredding.)

            i think.              (explanations, by definition, do not make sense.)

                        i dream.           (nightmares are better than reality.)

                                    i remember.    (even now my skin would feel your touch.)

                        i know too little.

                        i know too much.

if you

were looking through my eyes,

you'd know:

"purple is the color of passion, purple is the color of pain."

Booklets of my poems are available for sale. 

 Click on the "contact me" button to email for details.