Welcome to the Walls of the Arteries of Seattle (45th St Alleyway)

Ivy points


Trapped amidst nature's wires




To keep it all inside


The view from inside


Downward spiral




Squeezed between the lines

A Limb of Boredom

Collected dirt, trapped under a finer fingernail,
residue of a blue dye, the mark of wet leather,
scores of unrecalled moments, lost to my blinking eyes,
this is what I am responsible for, the lack of order.

Perhaps a room full of plastic boxes,
waiting for something to hold and keep,
a clashing assortment of colors,
painted in a hidden corner of this room,
an indecision of light, shade and hue,
these, my hands, are but petty cranes.

The thud of a weary drum, beating for a battle,
wandering paces crossing the field in shoes,
laying dormant, yet moving all the while,
in space but throughout time, toe to toe,
impatiently cracking, all to break open the door,
these, my feet, are but instable wedges.

UW campus this Spring

The sun peeking through the leaves.

A Moving Scene

The first day of spring,
for me brings bright flowers,
a heralding choir of birds,
and a first for vibrant days.

Today it looks like the haze,
following the day of a parade,
left to the rain and wears of night,
pieces to pick up, pack up and preserve for a time.

To be sure, nothing could dampen a day of celebration,
even now I carry a courtyard of bloom,
a burst of flora within my heart,
speaking loud over my slow head.

Here begins a new season,
which I could not have announced,
like a beautiful painting I have not earned,
given when I could only begin to appreciate it.

Compline and Gasworks

Weary Mouse Dreams

A black backdrop of night,
the words drooping down the walls,
a perfect scene only broken by chaos,
the disappointment of a lingering sleep,
a timid wake up and tug from dreams,
the motion of sibling inviting me to rise.

It was an early morning,
to which I wished to pass unaware,
though my thoughts lay buried in pillow,
I could not excavate their site in my mind,
perhaps I thought it a game,
I need only apply myself and then win.

Stuck in automation,
staring at the virtual,
green card table in front of me,
the monitor for everything I do,
perhaps in a dream too far,
when being awake is so glaringly real.

A Movie Seen

I tread up the stairs,
goad the door the open,
with my staff and a grin,
a sunset for the occasion,
the sun for my focus,
setting on the onset of dusk.

The window glares as it swings out,
subjected by my hand on the clasp,
to greet the cold breeze outside,
blowing the shining star beyond the horizon,
I wave goodbye to my eye and breath,
my last thought must make its mark.

Even Now I Live, Desert of a Throat

Information travels faster now,
but our hearts still beat their slow,
insistent, even irregular pace,
making me forget everything I have to face.

It must be perfect, a natural setup,
pacing tape and into the drawer placing a cup,
removing it for a rainy time,
walking outside demanding change from the sublime.

Cutting two into four, unevenly,
dallying on the threshold of the threshing floor,
the wind picks up and I'm away again,
I only see black and white, and tinge of scarlet.

I lack the strength for an engagement,
such as this enraptured pelican implies,
flying through and through my room,
demanding my attention, only to distress it.

The bitter cup visits often,
and when the bird takes flight,
stealing it, I protest and sulk,
after all my talk, I'm still thirsty.

I Call the Box (Introducing Hibernating Home)

So playing my green sound,
much spent energy, nothing of the light,
of a fan-blown black,
peering into the room.

A restless sound folding sheets,
and of the unfolding sleeper,
rearranging the steps down to my pillow,
and up and retrieving the creaking loft.

A creeping source of an equilibrium lies distant,
towards speech on wood,
telling soon the cover of morning,
how the darkness comes lighting up under.

The socks walk in the day's bag,
and lay in a drawer of the simple,
rolled in my essence and wrinkled white,
here lays all of the kind.