Inbetween filters

My right hand man tells me in Italy

When we get back to New York-I should be

his left hand girl and just take it easy

I’m slowly learning to do what feels good

And it feels good to roam around like this

With you all the countries we seek are home

In these months I’ve moved lost some old friends too

Hard times turned to goo made way for the new

Things are looking up I am on the mend

Such are the ways of family love friends

Inbetween filters

3 birds

three birds flashed before my eyes

you, me, and elohim

what a holy trinity I thought

comedic and full of errors

we made sure to leave room

for tragedy

to honor the past that was

burning between

my fingers as I came home

to me

now I can really see

now I can really see

We had to burn the past for my shadows

to breathe free

freedom knocks when forgiveness calls

and we are home deep within

a core that bleeds upward




3 birds

what god looks like

In a dreamy cadence she mused


I’m not sure what god looks like but I see

god in you-so maybe each person’s god

looks like their own version of a mirrored



 she sighed


What’s god look like when you’re dreamin’ of them

in that warm blanket you call a cocoon?

Is god a giant or invisible

Yeah, I guess the god I see is blurry

like a foggy moon-I recognize ’em

even when a cloud is sifting on through


Maybe god is hazy ’cause god is light

and morphs with everything in our plain view

everywhere all at once , in darkness too.

Bits of him make up bits of everyone

so, of course, god must and can look like you.



what god looks like

Stupid Questions

Reality (Future)

“I don’t know if you remember…”

He went on to describe a conversation placed in the core of our collective memory. He acted like we both didn’t know in that moment that the moment we were living in, in that version of the present, would be cataloged and used in future references because it did such a damn good job of summing us up.

The weird part was I had never forgotten, but I had only just remembered-it had only recently resurfaced to the forefront of my gloomy glowing mind.

I paused in thought while I wrapped my feet around a stool.  Does he remember that night and does he remember it as I do(?) I usually I recall this memory as being gooey, but other times shame attaches itself to it.

Our time too short, we made every drink a double and we introduced our intellects to one another through the way we let seven letter words for ******* slip through the gaps of our teeth.


“What a stupid question.”

We met at a bar, and asked each other stupid questions.


I met him again at the bar, but here we were at opposite ends. And I go on and tell him I often thought about that first conversation. That how funny it was that we were back here. I said to him it was profound for me, profound like when Descartes clicks for you in Philosophy 101, but also profound because it didn’t just feel like a man and a woman at a bar connecting on that never-thought-I’d-ever-meet-anyone-else-who-is-so-into-talking-about-this-shit jive; it was augmented-something new, unfamiliar, advanced .

We rejoice months later but I guess only moments or minutes later because we were in one of my dreams; we had this knowing that somewhere in the ether of it all, a part of us we thought was only ours, was shared or mirrored in another person.

We were at our bar, asking each other stupid questions.

Stupid Questions