where the writers are
The Call
11 28 08 SF photos 291.jpg


August 30




Within the sound of your voice

I sing

In the beat of your heart

I heal

I feel in your touch

And dance when your toe starts to tap

I see myself in your beauty

I warm inside your embrace

Your thoughts are my inspiration

Your lungs breathe me in and blow me out

I soar in your flight

And dream in your waking

I ring in your ears

Fall with your tears

I’m lost in you

Found in you

Travel and lounge in you

I share all your rantings

And hide in your secrets

You hear and caress me

My darling

You know who I am



Return to an old joy for a visit.







Hungry dogs who love me anyway,

dance around waiting to be fed.

If they didn’t love they

would take bloody bites and I don’t forget it.

These puppies have teeth,

like cigarettes I want to smoke but don’t.

And meanwhile back on the farm

I seek to quiet the whines and barking

of the unfed, malnourished familiarity

which writhes at my ankles and jumps at my knees.


I can no longer pat my disquiet on the head

and expect it to stay or heal.

I must hunt down the beast which bothers me

and feed the meat of it to the pups.


I must not leave the lopers to quarry my burden

if I want to remain master

and leave them to be pet.