Thursday, December 20, 2012



Preface: A series of unfortunate events-not the children's series-but, a series of unfortunate events coupled with a fresh reading of Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar created questions in my own mind about the topic of cliff-diving.  One must remember that cliff-diving need not be taken literal, or of course, cliff-diving can be taken literal ...  do as you wish.

Mind Wonders upon Cliff-Diving:

Is cliff-diving really a fun adventure to an individual, to a group? A sport-whatever a sport is? Do groups of people or even a single soul really intend to jump off a cliff for fun? I've seen these cliff divers at the lake, at the beach, and of course, on television and movies, but do they really believe this death dive is fun?  Do they wonder what will happen if a hidden rock only pokes its head above water as their head is greeting it?  Or, do they want to play the mermaid or merman game and never play the earthling game again?  Who knows? For it isn't for me decide. For I've been a cliff diver: both mentally and physically.  Almost all beings have been cliff divers, whether they acknowledge this fact or not.

Some cliff divers dive into the deep mentally. Yup, mentally. Maybe it's a mental reaction to an external force or some physical action inflicted or boundary cut loose: the only thing the mind can do is cliff-dive.  You see, these mental cliff divers, some-for who am I to label which person is a mental or physical cliff diver-wish to not cliff dive at all.  They would rather freefall. But, alas, they finally land. Their landing is not the clear cut noise of a cliff diver gracefully gliding into the water. Oh, no. Remember, these are mental cliff divers.  Their dive is into a dismal land of decadence, of doom. They're quite content with their scratched but not exposed cup, whether it be filled with murky or muddy water.  For when they finish their free fall-the truth, the action, the reaction-into the water, that murky or muddy water filled cup called life pours out and exposes them to reality.

The mental cliff diver no longer perceives the gleaming gold glitter.  Instead, they realize it was only the sun, toying with the fact that the truth can be, or is, the red rotted wood at the end of their freefall.  That rotten truth unfurls and the bubble breaks: breaks and maggots bumble from their opaque glittered bubble.  While we all know that the bubble-we can call it an ornament even-has scratches or doesn't glow rainbow unicorns all day, or even half a day, it's our perception of reality.  We don't want to see our scratched bubble broke and the maggots bumble around us.  So instead, we cliff dive, hoping to freefall, to never land, to never really see reality.

The actual cliff diver dives. He or she or it may get a rush, an adrenaline kick.  So, maybe it's their kick, their fix that encourages this risky behavior?  Maybe it's their thoughts, their images of their beautiful scissor slice dive?   Or, maybe they too wish to freefall and land but prefer the physical to the mental cliff dive? Or, maybe they are the ones we mental cliff divers should look up to: for strength, for endurance to face the truth. Because the actual cliff divers know that in the end of their freefall, they glide into the green lake, the gold sea-where the actual cliff diver sees the crystal clear calm that shows him or her or it, reality-whether contrary to their wishes or to their scratched bubbles.

Guess it depends on the cliff diver.

Friday, February 24, 2012


lingerin' up-
on a
land. a
land that
lies-li〪〭〫〬 es
open. open to
play, to
ponder upon
the sun's
his fire that
scorns, that
sizzles e.a.c.h.
golden follicle with
its fury, its

the flame- it
fondles, it
fingers her
womb, her
woman, her
wobbly knees. un-

til it
burns, it
bristle of


a baby-a
bloom. it
blossoms into
a f.u.l.
l. fledged flower❀❀

    it blooms into a ...
                 G.,  a

thing. an in:
tangible thang-a
tangible thang, to
touch, tango, &
telltale, talk
of timely thangs 
to, w/.

 it. becomes you. its
  being, be-
   comes you. it-
    blooms in 
     you. Until-
you cannot breath, be-
without its 
seeds s/e/w/i/n/g its
seams in-
to your soul. its
ged roots rub-
bing its rough coils
in your
soil. it
attaches. & 
curls. &
coils. it
 b❀l❀o❀o❀m❀s❀ into
  your being, your blood, your
   bloodsteam ♒. 

Wednesday, July 27, 2011



color springs &
shouts from
the yellow sea of

purple picks the
eye, while white
floorwalls warn
of its dry
soil that
seeps apples seeds.

canary colors connect
the wheel of
as black beaded
beaked birds
perch upon----

                        a particular round
                         tree-Moe Like Hair.

these Spanish senors and
senoritas sit
& stare.

right twists &
left turns connect
the curls,
curling up to
the top of the
lovely lavender
lake atmosphere above—

calm cows sit, see
& suckle
the sticks that
stand straight, that
squeeze their
obliques sideways to
speak to the

weeds wobble &
sprouts spruce &
spray the
Spanish countryside with
the desert’s
color wheel.

Saturday, June 4, 2011


Two hefty hens,
matching halves
of a heart: They
harden and congeal
into one timeless 
piece of art.



sucking Sangria under
her brown brim straw
surveys the
sky, the
salt, the
snakes, the
sassy seagulls
that saunter upon
the Sea's scenery--Her

she observes
the slimy sun-
kissed king: strolling,
strutting into her

sees her
sapphires. he
desires Her
diamonds, Her
brilliant bijous.

the sly
strokes and
strikes the
sultry Sea—
yet, She
sinks and
stashes Her
gems. he
tries to
smooth-talk the
sweet Sea’s
soft sails. he
tries to
suffocate Her
swirls, Her
swells. he
stirring Her
She sees
motive, his

She shoves,
pushes his
plump pink
lips out
of Her
face. She
him out of
Her blue

the brown brim
straw hat daughter
deepens her
loathing for
such sneaky
seaweed. shouting
"solidarity!" she
seeks her

toward the
deep shrieking
Sea. she sees
Her roaring, Her
writhing cries. the
Sea summons
Her dutiful
daughter and
wraps Her
wiggling, white
worms around
her waist. They