Here is my heart on my sleeve:
treat it gently, please.

My mind and history are behind,
screaming to accept its defeat.
Sometimes all the energy I have,
is for standing on my own feet.

But I have decided to wear it there,
even if it drains me of durability.
I am beginning to walk again,
swaying in vulnerability.

Be kind to me:
I am learning to trust again,
to reach my hands before me,
when I stumble in pain.

No longer in order to brace my falling,
but because I am hoping- you see-
than when I inevitably do,
there will be someone to hold me.



Tonight just under the surface,
there is a stirring in my soul.

A passion suppressed,
beyond the reach of my memory.

I feel it budding,
Pushing from behind my skin.

Craving to be freed,
from the darkness I’ve held:
too long,
too buried,
too painful,
for contention.

Tonight I will not struggle,
I will not strain,
I will not fold.

I will open towards the moon,
Unveiling my cracks and bumps and bruises,
I will breathe in light.

on my 34th birthday,
I am ready.



I find myself again in the grayness of this city.

Humid billows of ashen smoke fill my lungs,

as tainted mist clings to my skin.

I center myself behind the weight of the world,

waiting for liberation.

The pain gradually rises up,

through the hole in my heart, into the atmosphere.

Mixing with acid rain, it dissipates,

leaving me in sultry exhaustion.



The pain comes in waves,

 Pressure builds in my chest,

And with it the urge,

 to birth a poem forth,

an animalistic necessity,

turbulent ambivalence,

in the presence,

 of a foreboding awakening.


A splash of promise,

a dash of grief,

a spreading of wings:


 I’m flying….



They say you must feel pain,

 to feel joy,

that struggle,

 is necessary to live fully,

that suffering,

allows for gratitude,

and that sorrow,

opens the heart.


But, fuck,  does it hurt!


I vowed I would not run.

I would not evade.

I would not numb.


So here I sit with pain,

the full weight of my humanity,

on me.


Only trivial relief comes from cool tears,

gliding down my burning cheeks.


My thoughts taunt the dark corners of my mind,

I let them permeate.

Muddled by my refusal to react,

they mix with the background roar of evening traffic,

until I no longer hear nor see them clearly.


I get it; I’m flawed.

I am human.



As I crossed over the Portsmouth bridge into Maine this afternoon,
I saw a flock of white seagulls fly over the deep blue river.
They dissipated into the grey winter forest,
somehow making me feel at home,
along with the muddy patches of melting snow,
and the vivid shifting sky,
over permeating stillness:

Solitude at peace with itself.

I used to see it all as a trap, an icy prison,
of timber and water.
But today there are moments,
in my messy world of cement and tangled bodies,
that I long to disappear,
like the gulls,
into the wisdom of these ancient pines
and crispy thawing streams.