karma is a yellow dress

she’s a karmic

not a twin

someone to drown you

from within

a lesser version

imitation of a star

even looks a little like

Gwen, from afar

such pretty words

paired with ugly deeds

one, two, twenty times

love has lied to me

heart is breaking

somehow still hoping, waiting

too much space

it’s suffocating

and so you’ve chosen

and so have i

dreams are nightmares

words are lies

i won’t be there

the beach, the town

i’m not a yoyo

yes and no, up and down

she’s a karmic

not a twin

she will kill you

from within

that yellow dress

i take it personally

she is not your muse

only claims to be

lie to yourself

i won’t hear anymore

i won’t be the anchor

that grounds you to shore

she is a karmic

not half of the star

she numbs reality

truth of who you are

she is a karmic

i am your twin

may your dreams be haunted

by what could have been.

Inspiration by the Numbers

I have written 198 posts on this blog.  (This will be 199.)

83 of them have been since January of this  year.

115 were from 2012-2018.

Averaging 19 posts per year for that time.

This year I have written nearly 12 posts per month.

That’s a 361% increase in production.

Not counting the things I don’t post.

It erupts out of me like lava, what can I do?

83 posts this year with 5 months to go.

I suppose I should collect them in an anthology.

A coffee table book.

One million notes on Springsteen… and counting.




Tell me a lie.

Tell me the most preposterous lie you’ve ever told anyone

Make me believe it.

Tell me a truth.

Give me the most authentic declaration that has ever passed your lips

Make me question it.

Sing me a song that’s so good the melody haunts my dreams. Write the lyrics so lovely I mourn to listen.

Dedicate it all to me.

Lay it bare – just there –

Hidden in the words they don’t read.

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Notes to add later

He wears a horseshoe ring but doesn’t believe in luck. Commitment-phobe but covered in tattoos. Fights fires and can’t swim. Handful of earth who keeps his face to the heavens. Whispers loudly, laughs when angry, cries when happy and sad. Classic who doesn’t read the classics. Modern who prefers vintage. Old soul with new ideas. Hates cliches and stereotypes. Completely in control, except when he’s with her. …

Trigger warning! He shouted.

She crumpled onto the floor, laughing in the decent, finally landing in a heap as the last few giggles burst past her lips. She inhaled a long, deep breath, the smile on her face wide and genuine.

“That’s not what that means, Old Man.”

“Worth it, to get you laughing, Kiddo” was his reply.

Running Down a Dream

I’ve been visited by dead people before.  It’s pretty common for me.  When someone I love dies, they will visit me in a dream. We may chat, or have a picnic, or cry together.  It’s a sweet way to get closure, and I can always tell when a dream is not just a dream, but a visit.  I’m grateful for whatever part of me is open enough to let them through.  Sometimes other people’s loved ones come to me in dreams, too, and ask me to relay messages, which I do.  I know there are plenty of people out there who don’t believe in this sort of thing, to which I’ll now respond with my favorite Nicolas Cage quote (from City of Angels) – “Some things are true whether you believe in them or not.”


This is my Sincere Face.

Last night, I had a dream that was a visitation.  It was about Tom Petty.  Yes, the celebrity/singer/songwriter/cowboy/Traveling Wilbury.  That one.   I have always felt a special connection to Tom’s music, since I was a kid I’ve loved his songs and identified with his lyrics. I was sad, as a lot of people were, to hear of his passing and disappointed that I’d never been to see him in concert.  It wasn’t something I dwelled on, though, and as life does, mine moved on.

So the last few nights I have had some strange and colorful dreams.  I attribute it to the full moon + partial lunar eclipse in Capricorn (don’t get me started on Capricorn).  Last night’s dream was colorful and lively, but different. If you’ve had visitations you know what I’m talking about.  It’s almost like lucid dreaming, in that you’re aware something is different and this moment should be cherished, you try to look around and remember things because you know it will be over soon and you don’t want it to be.  At the same time you’re trying to listen and pay attention to whatever wisdom the visitor is there to impart.

I won’t detail the whole dream, but I will say that the part that felt most important had to do with my boots (navy blue Doc Martens with a zipper on the heel) and his boots (unknown brand).  We compared boots.  Tom Petty gave me some tips on how to care for mine, and how to make the leather feel smooth and buttery like his.  (Yes, I felt Tom Petty’s boots, and yes, they were as soft and luxurious as you might imagine.)

The other important part had to do with him having daughters.  One a brunette, she had a little chubby-cheek face and a dress on and she was precocious and chatty.  I mark this as important because it wasn’t something I knew about him.  I didn’t know TP had children at all, and I had to look it up on the internet to confirm it.  Two daughters, according to Google, and according to Dream Tom.  That, for me, is a confirmation.

All of this has left me with a sincere curiosity, and a hope that maybe the great Tom Petty is one of my spirit guides.   He’s not the first person to visit me after passing, but he is one of the most interesting and I hope we get to chat again.

Damn the Torpedoes. My guides are cooler than yours.

A couple important notes about dream visitations: Our loved ones, guides, anyone on that plane can take on any form.  My grandfather sometimes visits as the “him” I remember, and sometimes as his younger self.  Tom Petty went back and forth between young and old, seeming equally comfortable with all of his different human “selves”.  Also, visitations are not usually romantic in nature (unless the person was a romantic partner, and even then it’s not likely.)  If you dream about making out with Steve McQueen in the back of a limo it is probably a wish-fulfillment dream courtesy of your own subconscious, and not an actual visit.

timing [draft, notes]

Shower revelations, that’s what they were.  Every single time that man stepped out of his clothes and into that piping hot deluge – where there were no pens, or paper, or typewriter keys, the ideas began to flow to him like lava from an erupting volcano.   Mount Vesuvius had nothing on his big noggin’ when it was time to wash.  She chuckled, wondering to herself how many little odd facts she knew about him.  She liked being the keeper of treasures such as these. Then she wondered how many of them she might never get the chance to discover, and the smile faded from her face.


One time, he had leapt out from behind the shower curtain, jabbering to himself about some line from A Streetcar Named Desire.  He had a thing about Marlon Brando.  A theory.  He believed that through nearly imperceptible nuances in his acting and his speech – even and especially when he appeared to be chewing his face – Marlon Brando was trying to communicate secret messages to the audience.  If Clint was right, Brando was either the greatest actor who ever lived or perhaps one of the most fucked up and tragic.  Either way, it would make a great story line for a book he was working on and he needed to write it down right that instant, even if it meant dripping soap and water all over her new faux sheepskin rug.

Another revelation came in the middle of the night, after showering to wash off a disappointing day of staring at his computer screen and all the plot gaps he couldn’t seem to fill.  Angie was fast asleep.  He woke her, of course.  Major revelations needed to be shared with some urgency, otherwise they lost their potency.  Bleary-eyed but amused, she sat up to listen to his impassioned speech which was about, of all things, timing.

So many of their conversations centered around the whens of their relationship.  The past, the present, the future, that time at the bar when they kissed for the first time, that almost-time in that parallel universe when they got married and invited the goat minister Chagall was so fond of painting. All their failures and successes as a couple had always been chalked up to timing.  But now, tonight, since the shower, that meant something totally different than it had  in the 32 previous conversations.

This time it was different.  This time it made sense.

If it all came down to timing, that was terrific news, Clint whispered. He laid down on the bed and put his mouth next to Angie’s right ear, speaking into it like it was a microphone.

She scrunched up her face and laughed.

He continued.  It was never going to be the right time, he said.  In a roundabout way, that meant that any time – every time – they were together – was the right time.   If it was never the right time, then it was always the right time!  It was physics, he was pretty sure, but he’d have to Google it in the morning.  So this meant that every conversation, every text, every email, every chance encounter in a bar was an opportunity. And yeah, they missed a few hundred opportunities so far but the opportunities kept coming.


Angie had searched for meaning her whole life.  She sought it out in the patterns ants made on the sidewalk when they were in formation.  She looked for it between stanzas of her favorite poems.  She even tried to make up meaning when none could be found.  What she had learned, in her four decades of life on this planet, is that sometimes there is no meaning.  Nothing obvious or tangible anyway.  The mystic inside her wouldn’t allow her to completely dismiss the notion of a grand universal symphony, that everything worked together for some glorious outcome, even if a lot of times she felt like a kid sitting in the orchestra pit whose only view was of the inside of the tuba.  Clint’s attempt to ascribe meaning to his and her screw-ups in such a romantic way was probably her favorite thing about him.  She recognized it.  She kissed him softly and laid back down to sleep.

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hai u, haiku

You cannot ignore a thing

And call that healing

Avoidance does not bring strength.