“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan


he was thinking 3 dimensionally

we were grocery shopping,
or really he was,
before i drove him home to his piece-of-shit shack,
and he was standing in front of all the cheeses,
standing befuddled, lost in space,
looking for the one he likes the best,
and i'll be honest, i wanted him gone,
(let's get this done and you home,
i love you but you're driving me crazy, crazy)
 so i asked what he was looking for,
there in the confusion of his eyes,
and he said a half moon cheese,
and he said i can't find it.

so i looked
and i saw crescent moons
and i saw full moons,
and then finally, there,
just where the display turned an oval corner,
a half moon.
this? i said, holding it up,
colby?, i said,
cause you know, what do i know?
and no, he said, a half moon,
like a ball, cut in half.

he could see the dark side of that moon when i could not,
and i understood for a moment the tower of babel.


poem #3, for napowrimo
and for my brother
and for our inability to communicate.


where we all fall off

we go cautious near the place where the fence stops and life begins;
one foot into the nothingness, followed by the other, followed by a gasp of breath
surprised hands scrabbling i changed my mind into the dirt grasping at leaves
too late.
the fat lady sings her own song at the end.


we go three times across the street,
one for the sun, one for the moon, and once for good luck;
fallen petals spilled across the wet road,
to be circused away by bicycle tires,
flattened beneath the footsteps of tourists,
tasted by raindrunk birds flying from the edge of here and now to there and away.

we go two times against the night, one for you and once for me,
the sound of honey suckling,
the secret whisper swoosh of evening moonrise and breath of darkness falling,

we go one time, together, into the empty places, onto burnt ground,
where my hands speak a language known only to them and wait for answers,
where your birthday candles are all afire, still, unfilled wishes wisps of smoke.

the air smells of a sparrow's fear and leftover lightning no jar can contain.


for napowrimo.  30 days of poetry.
this is my second.


how it looks vs. how it feels

it looks green.  greengreengreen.  when a cardinal flitters by there is no redder red on earth.

but it feels like the clouds will never leave - like i need to buy more rainboots.  like i need a raincoat and bigger umbrellas.  like there is not a setting on the dryer that is dry enough.  i can't get the temperature in the house right - it's too warm or too chilly.  i open the door and it's too humid.

so i choose how it feels over how it looks.  the camera is, after all, just a tool.  reality exists in more than one dimension.  photoshop is my darkroom.

the eternal boring argument about photography.

when i take pictures, it is always the imperfect shots that call to me.  the accidental ones.  this old broken 6 megapixel camera i am using is beginning to fit me well, reminding me of my old broken samsung phone camera. the one that allowed me to shoot out the car window with one hand, my other hand on the wheel.  it was always about how i felt when i pushed the button.  it was always about not trying too hard, and it was always fun.  i lately feel that again, and it is always about how i feel.


today.  they say it won't rain.