on road dogs and train walks

An hour west of Tucson tonight with a full but waning moon and giant mountains behind me and clear colder stars above me and Ryker sleeping. 48 hours.

The engine light comes on.

Tow truck chariot 100 miles outside of Houston.



I feel lately that I am on the edge of knowing a vast secret

That it whispers to me in swirls and in my dreams I grasp it

Trout themes.  “Oh excuse me I thought you were a trout”.

There are folds we fall into and come through together but different

I sit eating cashews and drinking out of this mug

“It’s a Pendleton” .

The rain drips and the sky sags

The garbage collects and the cigarette drags

The yellow rose crisps

In that dark and waxy bar

And the lyrics pour from somewhere familiar and very far

I sit playing musics and streaming my patterns into webs.

Writing the stories of the things we said.


On mornings

I stand in the kitchen in Pac-Man leggings scooping cream into my coffee.

Thinking about the words to write

and domain name ideas and square space versus WordPress

and I wonder what the others are doing out there

and I wonder about Instagram colours and I wonder if I will ever stop standing here cradling my left breast as if to calm the busyness behind it.

On Black skies and Blue Moons

It seems that I have been opened up and that the stars are flying through my wants and wishes with ease.

This frightens my old senses because I do not know what comes after. What happens at the end of the rainbow? I imagine it touches the horizon and wants to start over, just for sake of movement.

I feel I am on the brink of getting everything I’ve ever wanted to grasp, to hold, to understand, to love .But what defines Getting? Do I then own it? And with it comes immense responsibility. Over the edge and through the woods, while my little boat sways out at sea.

I dreamt that I died last night. Or I saw it. Then woke up.

I dreamt that I was in a immense dark sea , all alone. I could feel my small body lapping at the surface of the cold waves, and knew my fragile legs were bait to the unknown vultures under them, maybe for fathoms and miles below. I could sense them swimming up, hungrily, deservedly, to overpower my tiny life. I wanted to fight, to cry out in unfairness, but then what is fair? Is my life worth more than theirs? More than the shooting stars over the water, more special than the movement of the currents?

I was swept in a suction and the water grew warmer, I felt the cold depth disappear under me, although I still could not touch solid earth. I felt calm life around me, other living beings, all of us being washed out so it seemed, toward the same destination. I wasn’t afraid.

on Breath.

I wonder sometimes if replaying the events that led to this new view is enough. Or if perhaps it compromises the images. Like the idea of the Aboriginal soul suck of a quiet lens shutter. I understand their worry.

I walk the tight rope through these days between wanting too much and not having enough to hold under my growing fingernails.

Having the awareness of understanding better each moment. Watching the patience grow. Watching the thoughts  as they march like mice out of a small hole in the wall. The sense of urgency is the mouse, I feel.

I want to focus on the hole, the origin of the thought.

I want to calmly observe the love, from the eye of the storm.

Life is the uninvited third party in this dance of you and me.

I do not want the memories to set into habits, to retrace like cursive in grade school.

I want to dive deeper than I can say or know how to.

You ask me from far away the questions with the weight of boulders behind them.

You ask me and then hold your breath, fear grazes the green irises as we ignore the whirring and ticking and barking and creaking of the miles in between our dusty screens.

The thickness of lips evade the dull ache

Pixels alleviate my hungry eyes

and sips soften the synapses of calculated clocks,

Until, still. Still.




pillow lips and lucky southward grips

is this real life?

Filling my mouth with dreams

Terrified to fail at this climb

Baby big steps will do the trick and I do not want to cease

Comparing the geographical spires and coming up with more questions in my lungs

gulping the reality

I want the hard brass tacks of movement

and then coil into a kitten sphere as my head overflows


I have been bleeding from my skin and dripping salt from my eyes.

The ink will come.

It always comes.

The pressure builds and wonder how a person can survive the days

and if my forehead will wrinkle itself inward with worry

I read too much in bed when I was small

my shoulders and forehead were formed with

ink and pages

Now is the time to act, I keep hearing.

I rise with frustration of needy things

The things that could be cleared with a duster and a push of an opening window.

I wait in bed, breathing in the day, wanting to scoop sweet vanilla ice cream into my black coffee

instead of almond milk.

Wanting to inhale the inspiration that pulls and tugs at the sheets around my long legs.

Peppermint Patty would hustle in birkenstocks and not give any shit what she was supposed to be doing

I am supposed to be writing

and moving it

like the tides into the hands of the capable ones.

But I am capable and it moves me to feel stronger in my steps







Nothing less

Someone asked me once if my pussy is always shaved

and the words felt like the scrape of a hand running the wrong way on my soft and firm soul.

To be anything real scared the heart of someone who couldn’t see real life. Could only see the filtered screen of the palm trees.

Carbonated copies of what to believe.

Theuy used to say that my temple smells like cigarettes

after a night of hiding in alleys, and long sneaky walks.

I touch his feet with and hear from a scowl that feet are disgusting.


I used to brush them away like a quick itch. But they linger.

I’d swallow the plastic innuendos with the sips of unwanted drinks and unwanted pleasantries

Fuck that.


He asks if he can go down on me

In a cold yellow tent in the Mexican high desert mountain air

He asks this after we have kissed and giggled two hours away under the silk of synthetic down sleeping bags

Asks this after he sees the red on my thigh, the fresh morning moon. Kisses me with all of him anyway.

Licks my armpits and I get warm.



like home to me

P/C: Eric Puckett

Tessellations with our words

Dusty old Questions

Texas road dog at arrival. Belly out and full of butterflies. Tall backed and erect, nervously shuffling and poised outside of the white Tacoma.

Warm smile, tight hug

Smells like teen spirit.

The time hop of eleven years closes like the passenger door.

God those eyes. I wanted the eyes.

Whiskey shivers,

Warm skin and such green eyes.

Tiki mezcal and the overcoming urge of your mouth, your teeth,

Salt bubble bath and sinking into your tongue

4 1/2 hours at Nueva Laredo border permit parking lot.

Los Lobos. Sun. Rock.


Margaritas over a garbage fire.

Moonrise over the rock face, headlamp procession

Stars and over-exposed photos, trusting

the space[   ]between

more than in the past.

The razor’s edge of an explosion vs implosion.

Danced into this new year

Calmly watching from the epicenter of this blue wind.

I love it here. I love the way you speak. Your graceful intelligence and

soft way of confidently loving

Thank you for this trip. Thank you for knowing things that I have not been able to say. Thank you for the quiet indirect guidance, growth, the budding timid self-sabotaging human heart

I want this. I want all of you. To laugh in my bellybutton

Feel the breathe through it

Was feeling shaky in my confidence, helplessly watching questions rise and bubble with the home brew moonshine

Instead, I let it wash over me

let the cold seep in, opened my heart to it

What was left was something new. I knew that it would be ok

Knew that love is wind.

That this is wild.

Looking up I felt the earth of you, the swell of peace,

A familiar solid block spine of a book.

I love who you are

I adore it it a separate way of myself.

I want to make love to you in the way I see all of these parts and never, never forget


On the exhale make an aaaahh and other Woo woos.


There is a thing that I like to do when my brain is approaching burnout mode.

It happens when the overheated phone in my mindless scrolling mingles with the pressure of paying bills, calling that relative back, and walking the dog that stares with his innocent and ever-needy brown eyes.

How do we prioritize what is truly important in order to find that inner…exhale?

Close your eyes. Place everything before you that you feel defines who you are. Who you IS.

Then wipe the shit clean.

Look at that blank page.

What matters to you? Write down WHO matters to you.

Write in the things that make you feel alive. Raw.

Write down what your perfect day would look like.

Take a look at that list. It slowly beecomes a bit easier to face the steps

…to have more of it.

We remember. We remember the good stuff. The marrow.

We catalogue those moments where it happened. Where everything clicked.

Snowboard slicing through the treeline runs .

Dancing in a crowd of the faces and friends you love, to the music you love, when time freezes and you feel infinite.

Or when your breath lines up with your running shoes kicking up trail dirt and the muscles in your legs fall into that rhythmic groove of endorphin release.

We remember the heat of a sandy beach from long ago. The salty spray when we finally went out into the waves and got over that first rush of cold on our belly buttons. when we tried surfing and failed miserably but our ribs hurt from laughing.

Place them on a higher plain.

This is what we do the grunt work for. This is what we trudge out into the days filled with bartending, waitressing, desk jobs, deadlines, and meetings, dog hair in our toothpaste, messy periods, missed bills…

to build up the gratitude for those moments when we are aware of our impermanence.

Aware of how fucking special it is to be alive. To just be standing here on this dirty and forgiving ground.

Working, sweating, dancing and loving.