high and low

los angeles is a carnival ride, 

photographed like a day in the park. 

a constant progression of highs and lows, 

fasts and slows, 

with a selfie in between, 

looking like the time of our lives. 

los angeles is the time of our lives 

and always promises the best seat to see the stars, 

only with a sparkle in their eye,

on every street corner and, 

from across the bar. 

i’ll have another drink please,

and one more chance

to make a good impression,

on every constellation

they swore was at the bottom of the glass. 

los angeles is the bottom of the glass, 

one you don’t always bounce back from right away, 

but mean to stick around for a little while. 

a bottom that’ll make you believe you’re standing on a ledge 

and you’ll need to be reminded that we have no where to jump to. 

los angeles can leave you looking like you already did. 

but i’m sorry to any of you who dressed up for a funeral, those church bells were ringing to announce my marriage to my optimism. but please, i hope you're still coming to the reception, i can’t promise i won’t miss some steps, but the dancing has already started in all our favorite memories, and i can promise you, that our glass will always be half-full.

First Listen: Maria Taylor, 'In The Next Life'

Pittsburgh (live)

song for los angeles (live)

Silent Night (Damien Rice Cover)

Maud, working on her blue steel

Quiet monday night. I played indoor soccer at the local presbyterian church, and Maud kicked it at home on her favorite blanket.

I've been trying to write more frequently, but also capture the simple moments, without putting too much effort into trying to make things sound more than what they are. I'm working on simplifying a lot of things.

Here's to that.

my favorite poem

The beautiful thing about anyones favorite anything, is that there is no requirement for it to be the best or the greatest. The best is too obvious, and the greatest is debatable, but a favorite is a favorite, period. 

I set out last night to write my favorite poem, walked to the closest diner, ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and started with dear los angeles, 

i read jack london for the first time in high school, a short story called ‘to build a fire,’ about a man fighting for his survival in the wilderness. classic man vs. nature, in which nature wins and the man dies of hypothermia. during my first summer in alaska, i brought along ‘the call of the wild’, and probably underlined the entire first three chapters. i read it again two years later, and ever since, i try to read it before every big decision i make. 

a girl once asked me what my favorite animal was, and i remember feeling embarrassed to not know immediately what my favorite animal was. i thought about it long and hard, and was tempted to say a lion, after all, i am a leo, but i said giraffe, and i meant it. 

i discovered my dad’s paul simon records when i was seventeen,  the night after my high school girlfriend and i had broken up. we didn’t have speakers for the record player, so i set the needle on the record and placed my ear as closely to the album as i could. i listened to both sides of ‘there goes rhymin simon,' and i knew everything was going to be ok. 

the first constellation i was ever able to see in the night sky, was orion: the hunter, with legs and arms outstretched. i have lived on both the east and west coast, an island in alaska, el salvador, and along the italian mediterranean, and nothing makes me feel like you and i are much closer than we think, than seeing that constellation, standing so confidently in the sky. 

when i was twenty-one, i moved away from south florida.  and since then, i hadn’t really been home long enough to remember how much i liked cuban sandwiches; until two years ago, when i moved home for the summer to be close to the people i love. we ate them nearly every day of the week, at least that’s how i remember it, and cross my heart - those are some of the most favorite days and meals in my entire life. 

the night i fell in love with los angeles, she sent me four songs by tom petty, and told me if i supplied the coffee, she’d always bring the cup. since then, i have poured every ounce of me into getting right here: 

dear los angeles,

i didn't call you my favorite 

because i needed, 

you to be the best or the greatest. 

i called you my favorite 

because you already are. 

like i didn’t tell you forever

because i thought we were perfect. 

i told you forever, 

because i still think you’re worth it. 

i’m sorry if you took that 
for me not having any other plans. 

dear los angeles, 

i have never needed to make it,  

i have only ever wanted to keep trying. 

dear los angeles, 

wrap your long winter nights around me

and i’ll prove it, 
just how much i meant it 
when i called you my favorite.

post thanksgiving feels

Maud's favorite place in the apartment is against the living room window. Most mornings she'll wake up before I do, and gets the coffee started.  I normally start to stir at the sound of the blinds being pawed back just enough to make space for her to crawl through, where she lays on the sill, sips her coffee and stares out into the alley.

We have separate routines, and I don't ever bother her to join me for breakfast. I can tell she's deep in thought, sending her solidarity to the folks at Standing Rock, and contemplating the deeper challenges of the modern era. I imagine she says a small prayer for mom and dad to be happy, and wonders how her brothers and sisters are doing, out there somewhere in the wild.

Maud is balanced, and while she has her hesitations about certain things, as well as her limits on uninvited affection, she is warm and playful, and is constantly looking for ways to contribute, even where she hasn't figured out how.

When I first thought about adopting a cat, I had all these fears, as if taking care of an animal was going to somehow take away from all the other things I intended to do. The hypothetical world had me by the balls. But over the past six months, I've realized that having her around to take care of, and letting her take care of me, was what I'd really needed all along. Thinking it over - I'll take reality, my tiny framed, cheery, skeptical, and contemplative ball of fur, the litter box, the canned tuna, and the mid-night hairballs on the hallway rug; all day, all night, period.

[love is more thicker than forget] - e.e.cummings

love is more thicker than forget
more thinner than recall
more seldom than a wave is wet
more frequent than to fail

it is most mad and moonly
and less it shall unbe
than all the sea which only
is deeper than the sea

love is less always than to win
less never than alive
less bigger than the least begin
less littler than forgive

it is most sane and sunly
and more it cannot die
than all the sky which only
is higher than the sky

for leonard cohen, still waiting on the miracle

if you could see al the dead ends i've walked down
this place starts to feel more like a prison cell
i keep tellin' myself there's a way out
but words only go so far for so long

i'm still waiting on
i'm still waiting on
the miracle

if here is fine with you
then i don't need to get nowhere
i've got a loaf of bread and some red wine
we could share

i'm still waiting on
i'm still waiting on
the miracle

it's a good thing i still believe
it's a good thing i still believe.

John Moreland "You Don't Care for Me Enough to Cry"

Maudie, helping to read a script with Ben

Ben is one of the newest folks to move into 1823 Garfield. For work, he had to have a 150 page script read by the morning, and Maudie took time out of her evening cat-nap to help him take notes. Maud Brewster doesn't miss a beat. She's up at dawn, eats all her food, loves her toys, and is constantly a part of the action. She's thankful for what she has, is kind to everyone, and would give you the hair off her back. Couldn't be a prouder cat dad. 

come find me tonight, los angeles

if you ever want to see the sunrise, head to the beach, lantana florida, look for both sliding doors open on my white minivan and those months just after my seventeenth birthday. if you ever want to feel the sea, come swim with me, headfirst into the mediterranean, we'll come up for air just where the surface of the water meets that last bit of sundown. if you ever want to hear what the stars are whispering, hike to the top of bear island - kodiak alaska, in the middle of the night with just a sleeping bag and the infiniteness of our early twenties. if you ever want to feel your heart skip a beat, drink four too many whiskeys in her dad's garage, fumble for the letters to spell out what you've been thinking, and quiver when you say that you love her for the first time. if you ever want to tempt eternity, take the red eye home to el salvador, not knowing when you're gonna say it to her eyes again. if you ever want to open your lungs up wide, drive out to california, pedal the pavement, rent an apartment, rescue a cat, make love and come out on just the right side of enough, to breathe one more day to payday goddam if you ever want to watch a resurrection, come find me tonight, los angeles.

elegy

drummer boy

ever since i was kid, i have always liked the drummer boy quarter. something about the rarity of it, something about the surprise, something about pulling it from the change slot of a vending machine made me feel like i had discovered some buried treasure, as if the universe had this unique way of wanting me to be happy.  i wasn’t a collector or anything, i just liked it, and i’d try to hold on to it for as long as a kid can hold onto anything. it was always the last coin i’d spend, and the one i’d hope to find. 

i can’t remember how many times this happened, but it’s just the kind of woman that my mom is, she used to hold on to those quarters because she knew how cool i thought they were, and she’d get them so much more often than i did, because moms are always going past the bank and buying shit for everyone. i can even remember times where she’d be paying for a coffee, and when the change came back, she’d light up, like she’d won the lottery or something.

honest to god that feeling never got old, and it’s been a while, but i still hope with both hands digging through lifes cup of loose change, searching  for enough coins to finish my laundry; as if the universe still has her money on me to pull through this thing, it is the last coin i’ll spend, and the one i hoped to find. 

Lief Vollebekk 'Off the Main Drag'

darts

darts. 

is a great game. 

darts is great

because it is the best of both worlds. 

simple enough for anyone to try,

and challenging enough to still be unpredictable. 

the bullseye 

is the most definable piece of the target,

still difficult as hell to hit square in the eye 

no matter how many times you’re aiming 

no matter how many times you’re missing 

the next throw 

is like the last throw,

always the hopeful

you’ll hit what you were aiming for. 

the greatest game of darts i ever played 

was in, 

of all places, 

orlando, florida. 

in the back of orlando brewing. 

i challenged her to a game. 

the loser of which, 

i said,

would buy all the gas on our cross country road trip. 

we threw darts for hours, 

to a tune of the stale evening breeze 

and the slow pink 

of a descending central florida sunset

darts, 

is a great game 

because no one ever remembers how many times you missed the bullseye. 

darts is great

because i only ever remember how much i loved her company,

because perfection 

was never the intention 

and yet it still is the pursuit,

love is darts. 

love is darts, 

because it is the best of both worlds. 

simple enough to pique her curiosity

and challenging enough to keep her wanting more. 

our forever, 

is the central piece of the puzzle,

still difficult as hell to put together,

no matter how many times you’re aiming 

no matter how many times you’re missing, 

love, 

is a mutual contentment 

in missing the mark daily. 

Mama (a cover)

Halloween 2016

Fare Thee Well (a cover)

july 18, as good a day as any

A couple of developments over the past few months. I started a new job with a small coffee importing company in Orange County, called Bodhi Leaf Coffee Traders, and rescued a young cat; (not the one that nearly gave me rabies), but this one. We call her Maudie, she's nearly 10 months old, and is as happy as a clam. Guess that makes two of us.

sidewalks into fortunes

november 19, 2012

two nickels and the dime,

heads down 

on the sidewalk crack

just in front of her untied shoe lace

arms length as she passed swiftly

he had imagined fireworks

instead his best hope

burst open and scattered

like loose change

and not worth the reach

riding quietly for home, 

he honked his horn twice just before leaving

letting the white lights of the black sky 

sing optimism into the throttle

hold on tightly

failure is real

as real as the hope 

i try to remind him of

hope like a 1992 summer

when we flew 

from our parents rooftop with a bed sheet

when all we knew 

was that we were fearless

and a mother’s shriek 

and a father’s fist

couldn’t beat the braveness from our bones

i still want to fly

so please

let me call you beautiful

let me fall in love with every kind of beautiful that you wear on your body

let me leap from your rooftops

my arms have never been wider

your lips have never been brighter

let me kiss them heavenward

let my kisses burst into your wildest dreams 

let us come down slowly

and together 

we'll collect all our failures from the sidewalks into fortunes

if Maudie could talk between her Sunday naps, she'd say

i like mice. 

i like to kill mice, 

toy mice. 

i like to pretend kill my toy mice. 

i like to tear things apart. 

i like to tear cardboard apart mostly. 

i like to shred it in the night, 

and leave the debri scattered about the rugs. 

i like to wake up very early in the morning. 

i like to meow until my breakfast is served, 

eat precisely half of the bowl, 

then meow until i am pet. 

i like to scratch my scratch post.

i like to jump onto the bed and walk across your chest,

put my face against your face,

and meow until i am pet.  

i like to poop after my breakfast. 

i like to cover it up and then rub my paws on the bathroom walls. 

i like coffee bags. 

i like laying on them, 

biting them, 

digging my nails into them, 

and using them to claw my way around the bottom of the living room table. 

i like balls. 

squishy balls, 

aluminum foil balls,

rubber band balls. 

i like anything that rolls. 

i like strings. 

i like strings tied to feathers,

strings that hang from the bed sheets and the blinds.

i like computer cables, 

and anything that moves back and forth when i swat it with my paws. 

i like naps. 

i like my spot on top of the sofa, 

and my grey knit blanket. 

i like to lay here, unmoved,

to fall in and out of sleep. 

i like to fall in and out of sleep. 

i like…

no one shade of blue

the sky is no one shade of blue. 

like she is no one side of beautiful.

the thing about los angeles 
is falling in love 

with each and every single one. 

i want to live bright my years in the desert

i want to live bright my years in the desert.
i want to wake up with her light
and run
hard enough to feel her afternoon air drinking all the moisture from my body.
thirstier than ever i want to get older
and wear every day.
and when i am worn i want to sit still
long enough to see her exhale
a cool wind,
sundown
and hummingbirds.

small town freelance journalism at its finest

My original letter to the tcpalm Press Journal editor was rejected as too long and too potentially provocative. So they offered me $50 a story, breaking the news on added lunch sites for senior apartment communities, cat shows happening at the county fairgrounds, and the local McDonalds breaking the national record for most fresh baked cookies sold in a single day. 

Those days I could’ve written the book on pounding the pavement. All days, there aren’t too many cities in the world where you can’t find my foot prints, etched into their hypothetical sidewalks. 

On the mornings my stories would print, I’d walk to the bagel shop near my apartment and buy the paper and a coffee. I’d bet they still have one of my dollar bills taped to their walls, as proof - that even the most insignificant of moments, insignificant of stories, matter after all, to me anyway - and probably some retired Floridian, who thought my feel good stories were some of the most important news since Ronald Reagan - and I wouldn’t trade them for any others in the world. And i wouldn’t trade my own.  

So keep your eyes open, keep writing. keep doing things you’ll look back on and remember fondly. and keep hoping, because hope is the only way forward, and the only way toward any story worth telling. 

as i learn to read a treasure map

before i learned to read a treasure map 

the x that marks the spot

was a final destination

a series of directions 

before me like permissions

to reach a buried fortune. 

before i learned to read a treasure map 

i was always moving on 

always wanting something more

always this thing to the next  

always struggling toward 

that which i was searching for. 

so when i reached the shore 

i was certain i had made it, 

only to be greeted 

by a billion other sailors 

bored and empty handed. 

as i learn to read a treasure map 

the x that marks the spot 

became uncounted destinations

unending invitations 

before me like permissions

to come slowly.  

as i learn to read a treasure map

we are one clue at a time

always constant

like the rolling of the waves

always returning like the sun

unearthing its own beauty. 

so when today is but the ocean to sail 

and tomorrow

simply the horizon i am watching,

i no longer wish for all the answers 

and she is always reason

to find the treasure in the searching. 

nine to five to home

working a nine to five 

one is well versed 

in the number of steps it takes 

to unwind all 480 of those minutes

from the deepest fibers of their being. 

the punching of the keys on the time clock card 

the walk through the alley past the trash cans

the shifting into gear 

the rush hour traffic on the 101 north 

the motorcycles roaring in between the lanes

the scanning of the radio 

the newest overplayed hit pop song

the sun raining in through the drivers side window

the homeless on the corner of the hollywood boulevard exit ramp

the only open parking spot on garfield place

the collecting of my things 

the sidewalk toward my building

the white gate with the inward swinging door

the climbing of the stairs

and the fumbling of my keys 

to the turning of the deadbolt 

home

is all one ever needed to be reminded who they are.