we are two and we are one

we are different she and i
opposites they say
we are cut from different cloth
we are darkness
we are day
we are night
and we are sun
we are more contrast
than the same
we are sea
and we are shore
we are two
and we are one

and that is what we are
we are she
and we are i
we are more than meets the eye
its funny
isn't it
how two so different
could dance so well together
did you see the sunset?
i never thought it'd end
nor did i want it to
still that is what we are
i am me
and you are you

and never has
who we've been
and what we are
mattered so little
to who and what we are becoming
our disagreements are never-ending
so she said we have
that much more making up for the making
love is never fifty fifty
never heads or tails
never winning versus losing
so i said we are failing beautifully
this pursuit of the impossible

i was all a big picture to share
she had all day and night to spare
she said tell me your dream and i'll think it
i said give me your cup and i'll drink it

i was all a big picture to share
she had all day and night to spare
i said tell me your burdens and i'll share them
she said give me your wrongs and i'll wear them

love was never fifty fifty
never heads or tails
never winning versus losing
so we are failing beautifully
the pursuit of the impossible

we are different she and i
we are opposites they say
we are morning
we are night
we are gravity and flight
and that is what we are
we are she
and we are i
we are more than meets the eye
its funny
isn't it
how the beauty of flying up there
is in the viewing of all that is down here

a warmth even god smiles to feel

this all started as a poem 
about saying goodbye to a woman i love. 
this all ended as a supposition of sorts 
on a few things i believe about god. 
and it shouldn't come as a surprise, 
after all 
wherever love is unfolding
god is watching nearby, 
and i've come to imagine him 
dressed like my grandpa 
seated in the corner booth, 
stirring honey into his coffee 
and writing poetry onto the diner napkins; 
all with the biggest smile on his face 
a smile only god smiles -  
(and my grandpa of course).

if i've learned anything over the passed year 
it's how to see god everywhere; 
in south florida sub development blacktop when you tell her you love her for the first time 
to the escalators of a north los angeles red line station when you realize how much you still do 

this passed sunday was no different
alysse had been visiting el salvador for a few days 
and it were those few minutes before you know you have to make the drive to the airport. 
i said we should book it out a few minutes early, 
i was thinking of a spot off the highway, where we could watch the sunset and practice our see you laters on the city, before saying so to one another 
(the calm before the storm she called it).  
we pulled the car over, and made our way to the overlook railing, 
letting our eyes widen with the stretches of the city, 
decorated in the blue lights of first summer. 
i spread my arms as far as i could reach them, 
soaking in all that beautiful sundown, 
i then wrapped them around her as tightly as i could, 
to lock in a warmth you only find south of the U.S. border.
to lock in a warmth even god smiles to feel, 
as he watches from his booth atop the san salvador volcano.  

i think a lot of folks are afraid to let themselves consider god as something other than grand, 
as if we could in any way sell him short. 
i think god's biggest fear is that we'd never open our eyes wide enough to let him show us what getting small really looks like. 
i believe god is the sustainer of the universe, 
and i believe god is the gentle breeze and last rays of sunshine, 
sweeping through the city skyline. 
the beauty of god is that he is grand enough to be in awe of, 
and subtle enough to leave his art with an invisible signature.   
god is gentle enough to let us feel him, 
and we, she and i  
made our way back to the truck, 
and down the road to the airport 
with smiles on our faces 
and heavy hearts;
the smile in the knowing we'd felt god nearby,
the heaviness in the knowing we'd have to find him without the other next to us, 
at least for a short while anyway. 

so, 
beneath the fingernail moon 
i dripped the contents of my eyeballs 
onto the cracks between our interlocked fingers 
making you swear 
never to forget how absolutely wonderful you are 
and, 
beneath the blinking destinations 
on the airport departure screen 
you pressed the warmth of your exhale 
into the neckline of my sweater 
and told me i 
was one of the greatest things to ever come into your life, 
i - 
i - 
i - 
have never made god smile 
like i did with those goodbye tears 
after all, 
wherever love is unfolding
god is watching nearby.

forward

if you're like me
every couple of saturdays you
anchor yourself into the back patio rocking chair,
make waves
in your fifth cup of coffee,
and toss -
crest and trough
through all morning and afternoon -
this ocean you're sailing
this life you're living,
and
if you're living well
every couple of saturdays
you take a few steps back
and realize
just how much forgiveness you actually need.

forward
is a direction paved with the letting goes of all the things that want to drag you backward.
i have a tight grip.
so if you're like me -
find someone
skilled in the art of loosening your fingers,
listen to everything she says
and make her the one thing you never let go of.

i have never lived harder
and i have never lived better
the days i made apologies for all the unthinkable things i'd done
(for all the unimaginable things i am capable of)
and if ever there were a book written about my life i'd hope there were an entire chapter dedicated to the one who made every scrap of unbelievable forgiveness
available
freely

forward
is a road paved in the reminder that you never have to go back there.
i have a vivid memory.
so if you're like me -
find someone
with imagination
let her aim in your direction
and watch her become the one story you never tire of telling.

two cigarettes and every minute of eternity

the first minute felt achingly protocol -

silence implored

by the pure weight 

of words such as hers.  

i lit a cigarette hoping, that 

by the time of my exhale 

i might have formed a response 

bright enough to spark pardon 

into her tone,

yet something in my smoke lungs 

begged another drag - 

after all, 

no woman i could love,

would

cheapen her words 

to the worth of  

solely my response. 

one thing she taught me - 

no woman in the world 

wants anything in the world 

but to be listened to -  

and heard, 

the kind of heard that begs silence. 

the second felt justified, 

as if the first had been

the learning curve; 

time but to assemble - 

our past sins approaching 

and now face them, 

ready and patiently. 

i was apologetic 

that's a fact, 

yet even the guilty - 

comprehend mercy 

deep inside themselves 

wanting 

there to be 

something she sees - 

worth letting up for air. 

the third felt like subtle affirmation, 

like a long stop and dinner, 

then the climbing back into the truck 

for the next leg of the road. 

we were poised to brave the on and on.  

(there is a dark side of a full moon 

a danger in - 

even the sunlight; 

but there is joy in forward - 

toward the direction of what our hearts want, 

even, on the days that we don't make it there) 

i lit another cigarette, we 

were echoing each other's breathing 

full gasps of life - 

in and out 

like westbound transcontinental-locomotives 

nearly through the desert, 

nearly home.

the fourth felt like healing 

the fifth and sixth like resurrection - 

yet something in my smoke lungs begged another drag, 

after all, 

the only woman i could love, 

gave me two cigarettes

and every minute of eternity

to truly hear her, and 

in so doing 

form the only response  

worth such a beautiful voice. 

how infinitely hers, i am

in a field of lovelies
she is loveliest;
like all the pretty flowers 
to the one i gathered; like 
all the pretty flowers 
to the one i gave her, 
to the one she held on to

in a sky of lovers 
she is only.
spring, fall;
my fears were dressed for winter, 
she undid them like a warm summer 
never have i been so bare 
and never have i felt so pure  

when i see stars 
their staggered entrance into night 
like dim lit hallways, 
then brilliance; 
it is as though, 
they 
had hoped to remind me
how infinitely here and 
how infinitely heavens', 
they are

when stars see me 
my crescendoing reflection in the mirrors of her stare, 
i 
hope they are reminded 
how infinitely here and 
how infinitely hers, 
i am 

if you handed me the world

when she hands me the world 
i ask for it black, 
just cool enough to sip 
from a red tin cup
beneath a late afternoon sundown. 
when i hand she the world, 
she asks for it stirred
with sugar and soy milk
over ice cubes, 
beside me and that same sundown.

-----

one could spend his entire life 
chasing after places to see and be; 
so, she made me swear we’d spend our days
making the places we already were 
something worth seeing and being; 

(and someday,
the adventurers 
searching for the seven wonders of my 26th summer,
will find their guidebooks dead-ending  
beneath the hummingbirds of the los angeles river,
at the private delray beaches belonging to the owners of half-built condominiums, 
along the 2 am side-streets of southern boulevard,
beside the courtyard of a north palm beach panera bread, 
on the benches of a cafe and used bookstore in jacksonville, 
under the canopy of a brewery within the industrial district of suburbia orlando, 
in a hammock).  

and on the days you wonder,
how you'll ever cross 
from the failure you find yourself today 
to the person you've always hoped you might become; 
where the skies 
exchange there faded grays 
for the brightness you remember on those nights you used you dream;
she enters,  
like a bridge you never knew was constructible
like electric light, 
like flight, 
like impossible unfolding before your eyes, 
with body, hands, 
and a face like the winter constellations, 
and in an instant, 
the world is at your fingertips, 
like a story that wouldn’t let you blink even if you tried;
like paper airplanes 
and the speechless on your tongue, 
like the brightness in her lips, 
as they form i love you 
at last;
my world,   
is where she is, 
those sunsets -
really are the most colorful; 
those drives 
really are worth the miles; 
those moons, those 
cups of coffee, 
really are full, 
with the kinda full worth drinking fully;
and i am hers to the dregs.  

-----

if you handed me the world, 
it'd be five fragile fingers 
and her head on my shoulder, 
north los angeles
sundown.  

almost somethings

to make, 
something -
always takes longer and harder than you could ever plan for. 
to finish, something -
always depends on whether you truly want it more 
than the next something, and more 
than the last; 
because heaven knows 
my head 
is full of dreams;
and lord knows even better, 
my past
is written in almost somethings. 

when we just want one thing

been a few days, can't lose this

between the stop signs

no matter the friday,
no matter the flat tire,
there is always the last glass bottle
of coca-cola
waiting for us on the shelf of the corner store.
it doesn't have our name on it,
and that isn't how they stock the shelves;
which is how we know that God,
sneaks inside
minutes before we arrive,
and purchases all but one,
just to make us feel alive in the excitement
of knowing we'd made it just in time.

no matter the august,
no matter the i miss you,
i shuffle between the stop signs,
with a right jingling pocket;
as if the nickels and dimes
had organized a disco;
the way nickels and dimes do
when you've got too many in your pocket;
always,
to find that last coca-cola
always, with
twenty cents extra to spare,
to remind myself i'm already
half way there
to the next one.

no matter the winter,
no matter the i just want to hug you,
i drink every sip of
just cool enough,
to refresh today's has-beens from my bones,
as if all the emptiness inside me
were exactly twelve ounces;
truth is,
i'll take any reason to feel hopeful;
any hint to remind myself how simply wonderful you are;
any brightness to look heavenward,
and remember,
that god is good,
that she is lovely,
and coca-cola
is far too delicious to think about anything else.

the rationale for leaving work on a motorcycle, when the sky looks like the hollywood set of the film twister

the rationale for leaving work on a motorcycle, when the sky looks like the hollywood set of the film twister: "well, i'd rather be in a coffee shop than the office;"

the rationale for passing said destination, and continuing on into a slight drizzle: "well honestly, i'd rather be finished with work, at a bar - than at a coffee shop;"

the rationale for trudging forward into a torrential downpour, at the peak of rush hour, "because any place is better than - alone at a bar - at 5:45 on a monday."

three cheers folks, after ramping several sidewalks, running two red lights, and weaving half the distance in and out of oncoming traffic: i.am.home. and these days, i am convinced that there is no place quite like it.

and i wanted you with me

Tonight I made dinner. Spaghetti in fact. From scratch.
Crushed tomatoes. Whole tomatoes Ground beef. Onions. Mushrooms. Garlic. Basil. Salt. Pepper. Noodles. Baguette. Mozzarella cheese. And wine.
It was all there. Nothing more. Nothing less. Although not implying that either would be inappropriate. After all, it was my first attempt to do so from the ground up. So, call it beginners luck, but it was perfect, (other than the, needing to photograph it in order for anyone to know that meal was ever prepared), never the less, perfect.

Now, having finished washing my dishes and, finding a spot to reflect on the whole experience with my last glass of red wine, I suppose there are a few people I need to thank; Alan and Terri Kaiser - for the moral support while I was getting things started, listening patiently as I talked about work and church, while browning ground beef and cutting vegetables with you on speaker phone; Alysse Rupprecht and Mack Qualey - for replying to my pictures and videos of the whole charade - making me feel like you were indeed impressed by my efforts; and the Italians - for discovering ways to make ground beef mixed into tomatoes, vegetables and spices - and poured on top of boiled noodles, taste so delicious.

Heaven is real everybody, and I'm sure of it because - even in breaking the age old rule of never eating, let alone, preparing spaghetti by oneself, there must be a place where all that joy in doing so comes from; and on nights when there's no one around to experience it all with me first hand, I want to believe that some day, you and I; (you being - all of you out there wishing you'd have been here with me - tonight, chomping on raw tomatoes and mozzarella while I was boiling noodles to perfection and sparking excitement all over the night sky); some day, you and I will walk up to heaven's gates, to realize it's all a grand kitchen of folks making spaghetti; talking about the things that make god happy, eating their fill, and remembering nothing about what loneliness feels like.

I'm confident it will all be completely different than that, and yet exactly the same. Either way, I'll be there, and I'm sure of it because - even in breaking the age old rule of of never eating or preparing spaghetti by oneself, there must be a place where all that joy in doing so comes from; and i was there tonight, at least for long enough to know how new everything will be, and i wanted you with me.

monday because i love you

today is monday.
monday because i love you.
tuesday - you say
we should,
discuss it in the morning.
wednesday is,
wednesday, is
but a memory of brightness,
a light given to guide us
and not meant to look behind us
lest it blind us,
from the resurrections inside us;
like the white
the two men wore as clothes
in the tomb
where christ no longer was.
wednesday is
the empty tomb
for all the days too
big for us to swallow.
you say
keep looking forward.
tuesday - you add
we should,
discuss it in the morning.
today is monday.
monday because i love you.

He would want me to do the same, and I understood that

If I thought about it long and hard enough, I could probably get emotional; but I swore that if I ever told his story, I wouldn't make it metaphorical.

Six days ago, a bird, most resemblant to the look and size of an oriole, flew into the sliding glass door of our house at full speed. I was working at the kitchen table, and sincerely thought one of the neighbors had thrown something, I mean, the guy hit with the velocity of a little league baseball. I turned quickly to see a mess of feathers flipping backwards through the air, landing right side up in the seat of our wooden rocking chair.

I walked over to see if it was alright, to find it stunned senseless, and visibly in a state of shock. It did not move, not even a twitch. Its right wing was slightly crooked, beak pinned open, and his left foot crumpled up like a balled up piece of paper. Homeboy was in rough shape.

I named him Tony; and assumed that he probably wanted some time and space to nurse his pride back to sensible form, before we assessed his physical injuries. I tiptoed closer, both hands in the air, promising no harm, and used a small stick to free the corner of his wing, which was stuck within one of the cracks of the rocking chair. Still, no movement.

There was music playing, so I cracked one of the windows and turned the volume up, hoping to at least make the environment as comfortable as possible for my unfortunate friend. I went back to work, and proceeded to check on Tony every fifteen minutes or so. Two hours passed, and he still had not moved an inch.

Then, I heard the sound of other, larger birds, chirping from the patio, directly above where Tony sat. I worried he might be a sitting duck and actually thought about moving my computer outside, in case these crackpots attempted to pick a fight. To be fair, I never underestimated Tony. I imagined he could defend himself just fine, but then again, he wasn't exactly in ship shape. Kid had just taken a direct blow to the face from a quarter inch thick piece of glass, at full speed mind you. I would want him to do the same, and he understood that. We were buddies.

So, I walked back outside, to the surprise of movement from Tony. He had crept to the edge of the rocking chair and, eyeing the intruding birds on the balcony, made a short leap into the grass. I thought to get a towel, and try and scoop him up or something, but he wasted no time, bird hopping into the bushes; where he camouflaged well into the dirt and branches.

By now it was early evening, and I was heading out for a run. It felt like abandonment to leave the house, not knowing where Tony was hiding, or if he'd be safe from predators; but I assumed this kind of thing happens all the time in the wild, and life goes on. I finished my evening, still with no sign from Tony.

I slept and went to work the next day, still not knowing if Tony had survived his first night in our garden. It wasn't until late Wednesday night that, while sitting on the rocking chairs outside with my buddy Mack, catching up on each other's lives, that we heard a rustle from the corner of the garden.

We crept into the place where the sound had come from, asking Tony if it was in fact him.

He soon replied, "chirp, chirp, chirp-chirp-chirp," upon which Mack and I pulled some branches back to the flailing of wings, and a wild Tony, running along the garden wall.

We were ecstatic and high-fived multiple times, running to the kitchen to get the box of corn flakes. We assumed he must be starving by now, and left multiple piles of flakes for him to snack on for the next few days. I will say, that four days later, the piles of corn flakes are still in the garden. 

But we tried our best, and I have to imagine that Tony appreciated the effort, and even warmed up to the idea of us approaching his new quarters. That, or he was secretly wishing we would eventually bring him frosted flakes, since Mack proceeded to spread corn flakes for an additional two nights.

Thursday and Friday proceeded in similar fashion; with Tony slowly growing more accustomed to the garden, inching further and further into the lawn with each new day. His routine was running back and forth along the garden wall from one side to the other, calling out help-me signals, or commands, but to any and everyone. Then he would inch up the smaller sloped branches of the low shrubs, and perch, as if perching was the new cool and he was the King at it. 

On Saturday morning, I left my bedroom, which has a slider facing the garden. I saw another bird, identical in size and color as Tony, perched on the wall of the garden. Tony, low and behold, was pacing in the smack middle of the yard, as if he was the new head of air traffic control. The new, nameless bird swooped in, with a piece of something in its mouth, and fed it directly into Tony's gaping jaws. It was one of the coolest things I have ever seen. I called my roommates out to watch, and together we concluded that it must be his sugar mama.

(A sugar mama is "a woman or bird (often an older woman or bird) who holds her partner or bird friend in nice standing with money, food, an apartment, worms, etc. -- not always used in a derogatory fashion, or merely in exchange for sex or bird love, but because she can." - urban dictionary, **bold and italics were added.)

For the record, we have no idea about the gender of either of the birds, but Tony, spelled with a 'y' was just the name that came to mind, and the friend/rescuer was assumed to be female, although we never named her. Perhaps an insight into our perceptions of relationships: 1. It flies into a glass door, - wounding itself into a state of no escape, - and resorts to running back and forth along the garden wall, calling out repeatedly, despite multiple different fruits and corn flakes lying all over the ground: must be Male;  2. It shows up eventually and saves the day with worms and other delicious eats, - and proceeds to hunt for more worms, while Tony continues to run aimlessly along the garden wall: must be Female.

Tony was befriended, and the two played in the yard all morning. By afternoon, she was gone, but Tony was a new man. I told Alysse that the scene reminded me of the most recent Batman movie, when Bruce Wayne is in that dungeon, having to do a lot of push-ups and pull-ups before he can recover, and then jumps from ledge to ledge up the wall, in order to escape and fight the guy with the mask. 

Tony was determined, and he practiced all afternoon, running back and forth, and flailing from branch to branch. I don't know what bird push-ups and pull-ups look like, but Tony was doing them. He was a madman, and whatever Gotham city was under attack in his mind, he had resolved to recover and free himself in order to save it, and all the people inside.

Sunday, I came home from church just after noon. I said a quick hello to Tony, who was running in his usual spot, along the edge of the grass. I threw some clothes in the washing machine, turned on some music, and made two sandwiches for lunch. I opened the sliders, and sat on the living room sofa, facing the garden. I finished my sandwiches, as one of my roommates walked in the door, finding a seat at the kitchen table, and began to work on his assignments for one his online grad school classes. We made back and forth about the morning, church and lunch; and as he turned back to his computer, I picked up my phone to send a message to Alysse.

By that moment, Tony was in full - flood - Bruce Wayne mode again. He was buzzing all over the yard, in his wildest state yet. I was just starting to tell Alysse about it, when it dawned on me that the branch Tony had just flailed onto was half the height of the garden wall. I had noticed his excitement, but hadn't conceptualized his literal escape. This was it, the climax; as if I'd been watching a film for the passed six days, and this was what everything had been leading up to. I got Jordan's attention, and quickly told Alysse that Tony was on his escape route.

The garden wall is about seven feet tall, and the branch he jumped to first, was roughly waist height. Once there, it seemed as if he paused, long enough to get our attention, long enough to let out a "chirp, chirp, chirp-chirp-chirp," as if to say, "this is what they don't show you in the trailers," like, "enjoy this," and, "remember it forever."

The gap he cleared on his second leap, was about two feet higher and six feet away. He made it in slow motion, likely flashing back to moments of his childhood, then reality, then moments of his crash, then reality; all mid-flight. When he landed, I stood up. I yelled to Jordan that this was really happening, and we watched Tony make the few small leaps up the next several branches, to the top of the garden wall. I texted Alysse, "Tony is on the wall," with probably seven exclamation points.

Tony only looked forward, and with a few chirps, leapt into the branches of the tree inside the neighbors yard and disappeared behind the wall. He would want me to do the same, and I understood that. We were buddies.

a good poem, and a favorite

Art by Mark Rupprecht, 'BULK'

Dear Friends, reproach me not for what I do, 
Nor counsel me, nor pity me; nor say 
That I am wearing half my life away 
For bubble-work that only fools pursue. 
And if my bubbles be too small for you, 
Blow bigger then your own: the games we play 
To fill the frittered minutes of a day, 
Good glasses are to read the spirit through. 

And whoso reads may get him some shrewd skill; 
And some unprofitable scorn resign, 
To praise the very thing that he deplores; 
So, friends (dear friends), remember, if you will, 
The shame I win for singing is all mine, 
The gold I miss for dreaming is all yours.

Edwin Arlington Robinson

Matthew 25: 31 - 46

“But when the Son of Man comes in His glory, and all the angels with Him, then He will sit on His glorious throne. All the nations will be gathered before Him; and He will separate them from one another, as the shepherd separates the sheep from the goats; and He will put the sheep on His right, and the goats on the left.

"Then the King will say to those on His right, ‘Come, you who are blessed of My Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry, and you gave Me something to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave Me something to drink; I was a stranger, and you invited Me in; naked, and you clothed Me; I was sick, and you visited Me; I was in prison, and you came to Me.’  Then the righteous will answer Him, ‘Lord, when did we see You hungry, and feed You, or thirsty, and give You something to drink? And when did we see You a stranger, and invite You in, or naked, and clothe You? When did we see You sick, or in prison, and come to You?’ The King will answer and say to them, ‘Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, even the least of them, you did it to Me.’

“Then He will also say to those on His left, ‘Depart from Me, accursed ones, into the eternal fire which has been prepared for the devil and his angels; for I was hungry, and you gave Me nothing to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave Me nothing to drink; I was a stranger, and you did not invite Me in; naked, and you did not clothe Me; sick, and in prison, and you did not visit Me.’ Then they themselves also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see You hungry, or thirsty, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not [a]take care of You?’ Then He will answer them, ‘Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to Me.’ These will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.”

Novo Amor & Ed Tullett - 'Faux'

Clone,
caught hold of your flood lung,
harbour your ‘someone’,
prevent me.
 -
Shown,
you swoon in your lace run,
brooding, a quilt tongue,
pining me.
- 
Calm,
clot, cold, and bleed
 -
Bone,
pull over your midriff,
labour your inches,
widow me.
 -
Hone,
all crimson and hinges,
tarot and itches,
corner me.
 -
Faux
shot, sold and bleed.
 -
Cower all your cinders, fake us
bower in your shivers, shake us.

tea's ready, i love you

i make tea, 

partly in effort to steep my days-end in meaning

my true thirst is she,

the worth, 

of one hour 

is all sixty minutes of wanting her more absolutely; 

every day further, 

another day closer, 

for she, 

is beyond 

she is, 

waiting

she, 

like autumn, 

is approaching 

in season; 

so i, 

embrace summer 

its rains, 

its silence; 

only promise me a full moon - 

maybe two;

i've got the kettle on the stove  

and the frogs are harmonizing with the steady droplets of water from the tree branches 

night is here; 

i 

may not have been ready - 

but i will, 

forever be present, 

forever arms wide; 

i 

always said the best day for loving is today, 

and we

still have a few hours; 

wherever she is 

i only hope outdoors, 

to feel the fullness of the humidity 

and hear, 

the last scribbling of my pencil 

to the whistling that is coming from inside - 

tea's ready, 

i love you. 

Mesita 'The Villain'

show em how you're living 
weaponize your happiness

Lief Vollebekk

i said i don't mind if you don't mind
cause i don't shine if you don't shine
before you go, can you read my mind?

june nine fourteen

she - 
our days beginning
our days end 
lunchtime 
and all the in-betweens 
the things we should say 
all the things we do 
the secrets we keep only to ourselves
candles that stay lit for all the things we're hopeful for 
the striving in our gut wishing we were better than we are 
the days we keep silent 
the days we tell
the countless dreaming before sleeping
the thousand rockets 
firing in our brain for every thought wished to spell out clearly
the simplicity of a single word
enough for today 
- is

noah and the whale

you will sing day by day old joy comes back to me 

Gino & Mike

Two years ago on a trip home to south florida, my buddy Gino suggested we cover a song and record it; and although i can't speak for the perfection of the tracks, we had fun making it, and every trip home since then have done our best to continue the tradition. Track #4 coming this June; prior to homeboy moving up to Nashville. 

1. June - 2012
Paul Simon 'Homeward Bound'


2. December - 2012
Peter, Paul & Mary - 'If I had a hammer'


3. June - 2013
Bill Withers 'Lean of me' 

june six fourteen

the afternoon winter sky 
its 
always approaching rain 
its refined breezes 
like 
promises 
like 
forgiveness 
a companion 
enough 
for a quick lunch 
shade 
enough 
for a moment to catch your breath
time 
enough 
time 
enough 
time 
then back to work

and if you're body is a penny and i'm

wednesday cloud on clouds

postmodern artists of the rainy season

were xavi the type of kid to err on the side of realistic, he would have never encouraged us to barbecue. 

(last night, it rained harder and longer than any night all year, and continued into the day, pausing, only sporadically throughout the afternoon, as if mirroring the stop and go traffic of the very city streets it had had now stained wet). 

rather, xavi is one with the, second-to-none gift of pressing pause to that which is realistic in order to play out that which is imaginative; to engage all that permits him to add color, to add life, and pour himself into that which is lacking.  

so when i say, let's grill tonight, he says, i'll make rice and vegetables. 

when i say, let's invite amanda and duke, he says, i'll call them;

and i'll bring mack too. 

and every so often, despite our dirty dishes and the living room tiles stained with muddy footprints, we strike gold; and the clouds open up, long enough to let us stoke a few hot coals; music plays on the stereo, and we scatter about the house, each at our own task, each at our own best, with a thousand things on our minds, and a single reason to let it all fade to the dawning of how good it is to be with people who truly love you, long enough to enjoy a meal, clean the dishes and stick around a little longer to tease mack for still being in his school clothes.  

were xavi the type of kid to err on the side of realistic, we'd both have gone to bed a long time ago,  yet, still a few more drops of color in today, we talk midnight into june second, and call ourselves the postmodern artists of the rainy season; saying goodnight through tired bones before stumbling into our rooms at opposite ends of the house. 

for a rainy saturday; a Paul Simon cover

"always inaccessible, always bright"

Amado Nervo

Más allá

Más allá del cedro por el sol cribado,

Más allá del monte por la nieve hopado

Que los frescos valles custodiando está,

Más allá

Más allá del aire cuyas nubes puras

Gráciles erigen sus arquitecturas,

Más allá

Más allá del Cosmos, forjador potente

De mundos y soles, que en resplandeciente

Fuga de oro y plata desgranando va,

Más allá

Tristemente irradia mi quimera hermosa,

Siempre inaccesible, siempre luminosa,

Más allá