the distant hum

of the highway lullaby is

the song that sings in the

back of my brain,

the tune that plays

behind my dreams.

passing trucks lull me to sleep

like they always have,

from some not so distant road

sometimes blocked by soundproof walls.

this is my natural habitat.

i have noise in my head and

motor oil in my nails,

pollution in my lungs

and city skylines on my skin.

i know too much

yet nothing at all,

and the times when the world makes sense

seem arbitrary.

but i can take it on,

i’m made from tougher stuff

than you can see –

and my skin is thick with scars.

the passing trucks

carry fear away

into the distant night,

and i exhale.


leaving utah

i look at the hell

and watch the tears,

i hold your hand and stroke your hair

as any sister deserves.

these are the times that

try our souls

and let us pull out

who we know we should be.

there were wrongs,

there were rights

and watching it all collapse in rubble

feels like autumn news.

things fall apart,

but we scar and grow stronger

and sit here and wonder

when things will change.

and you find her

exactly when you need her –

she is strong and

she is angry,

she will take you

where you need to go.


when the syrup soothes me on nights like these

the spirit moves moves me, through me

and i feel like someone else.

we have the memory of nights like these

when the moon was brighter and

air never held the weight of the world but

we held the lights

and the potential

we were the dreams and the words and the life,

we were all we ever needed.


i keep track of these days

by the pills that i swallow

to delay my future,

to hold back the things that should come.

the days go by slowly but take forever,

the only agenda is one i setĀ  –

my goals are simple, self-imposed,

responsible and mundane.

i have visions of doing as i please

in this hot summer sun –

i picture a better me

dipping my toes in the writer’s pond,

seeking my answers where he found his,

leaving rocks upon the ruins of his cabin.

nobody ever said that any of this

would make sense,

would be easy –

i recall the opposite advice.

i hear my father’s words echoing

from the stove of his tiny kitchen

as many miles away as years,

all i can do is stay true to myself.

and my youth slips away to be wasted on those younger

as the universe intends, implies, imposes.

waiting, coping, holding on,

i pound the beliefs of others

into my aching head,

into my buried soul,

wishing i could believe in me

like they do,

wishing i had the eyes of those who love me,

because they see something real

between the words.


my path in the woods comforts

just by stretching out before me –

a softly waiting lover

beckoning me forward,

to the place where things

get better.

here among the trees i am stable

because they are strong

i am golden

because they are green.

the sunken earth gives way,

cradling each step,

holding the print and

keeping the secret of my footfall,

the secret of my tears.

the kinds of birds

my grandmother sometimes sendsĀ 

fly across my path,

a distant reminder that somewhere,

i am loved.

and the woods make me worthy,

the leaves steal my sobs,

the dirt absorbs my aching pain.

beneath the boughs,

beside the river

i have hope.


i survived the night

the world crashed in around me

crumpled and crying

on my four poster bed.

i felt the weight of it all

surround my body,

as my hands grabbed at the

iron bars,

cold and rough beneath my palms.

displaced by the human condition,

spaced too far from

the compass point,

trudging these bumpy trails –

downtrodden and trodden down,

i thought i’d had enough.

but i survived that night,

picked up the shards

lying underneath,

i pieced myself together

with the scraps of the world.

and though my eyes were dark

they saw the rising sun.

where do i hang my hat?

i’m getting to that point in moving where the lighting feels funny and voices echo uncomfortably around the spaces. my apartment is transitioning from being mine to being another’s. i feel the energy shift, the warmth of home draining away, dripping into boxes of things to be opened in the next place i’ll call home. the same things in different places – but its never quite the same.

good or bad, every home i’ve had has been an entity unto itself. there was my first apartment, the top floor of an old, creepy, crumbling house, across the street from george washington’s headquarters. there was my apartment in the basement of a building, with that distinct ‘something is illegal here’ feel. i lived for two year’s in a friend’s house, a place he had rebuilt before moving in. my favorite residence was the hippie hut, the first floor of a two family house on a busy suburban street in new jersey.

the timeline of my life is marked by the places i’ve lived. each place had it’s own spirit, it’s own breath. the walls that have known me have seen my secrets, have felt the bang of my fists and heard my moans of pleasure. the places i’ve lives have become part of me, intricately woven in to the events and emotions in my life. a song, a scent, a certain breeze can bring these memories flooding back, and i dance through all my kitchens in a single thought.

the idea of home settles thickly in my head. i know i have wandered too much, rolling around to avoid the moss. but i also know that, while the walls are fleeting, the photos on the walls are forever. i hold my memories tight and keep the pictures clear. the truth is, home is wherever i land, and every place i’ve ever been.

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