You said

We had become “objects”

To be, literally,


The spirituality that had dominated the events

had been thrown to the wayside…

And in that very moment,

as she looked at and through the camera

We were just vessels,

if that…

To be



Not justified

or mollified

Definitely not


And this long road





began to sink

to slip away

The world as we had previously known it

began to reappear

(Could it be The Quest was testing us?)

and the doors of illusion finally reopened…

unwelcoming… as we metaphysically separated from the land…

And like others, we began to question ourselves…

Who we were

What we could have become…

Her little electronic box of pictures

was not intended to capture this (our) memory

But to

squiggle up your identity

you tried so softly

so gently

so tenderly

to keep.


August 9th, 2012

I thought I left my poems alone with you


but somewhat bare among your trees…

You slide down against the wall

A forest

and it’s gradually coming back to me…

We’ve drowned out all those sorrows

and yet here we are again.

I refuse to let you smother me

in the pillow of your misery

And when I lied and said I spent nothing

there was really nothing more to spend…

Oh there I go again…

Omitting information.

Is this a denial I am so accustomed to?

A comfortability in the uncomfortability?

The streets are dark

and full of waning ghosts

I hear them laugh

and sometimes mutter

and I realize

then that maybe, yes, they are a reflection of me.

We pass the beauty bar and you both said the same thing twice…

Two broken hearts struggling to float…

I’ve forgotten how to do this exactly

and I’m wondering if I need to go back

and do it