Sleeping Eyes (Poetry 1993)

Dreams whirl: rainbow engines
shaping puzzles of truth.
He sleeps, pretenses
in shapeless heaps
on a chair beside the bed.

Outside, rain slaps,
splashing the hushed wind.

Penetrating flowers prepare
tiny, slow-motion explosions,
to prove love's unseen colors:
nameless, unknown, pale,
fragile as morning.

Rich petals unfold imperceptibly,
an invisible, vibrant kiss.

Light sets sail in an angel's
silken smile, singing
of the treasure disguised in his
sleeping eyes.

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The Secret of Numbers

(Poetry 1998)

382
A drink of water to declare bankruptcy. No
money, life itself was to blame. No one to
help. “I’m studying languages, not
mathematics,” he said. Number eighty-two
in the sixth row. She worships her own
statue: a Sunday child, who can see what
others can’t. She thought she held a child,
but there was nothing. His daughter, a girl
who loved just ordinary water, it’s color and
fragrance. Counting funeral wreaths,
counting poor people. I was a Sunday child,
and he made me his slave. Remember when
she dropped her bracelet, pulling out bricks
one by one?

181
Close with the police and, even though there
was no Sunday child at the ghost supper,
she can’t stand the sight of her own
daughter. Is the young girl sick? He’s like
the devil himself and can go through locked
doors. He can stay in the closet, which is
what wives say when they want to murder
their husbands. Your husband provoked
payment with his signet ring. All languages
are codes, but she could sense the light.
Times up! You’re a thief who steals
souls, like a vampire. She had witnessed a
crime go into that closet.

23
Adèle! Possess the virtues I lack. What’s
the point of talking vampires? Everything
she touches shrivels and dries. To lock a
window, because my hand had grown so
thin. I saw in lettering like scorpions that he
had been love with the dead man’s son. My
father ended up in a madhouse, with water
that’s stagnant. The harp was silent. Deaf
and dumb.

195.

A montage of quotes from
August Strindberg's play
The Ghost Sonata

Strindberg, Five Plays
Translated by Harry G. Carlson
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A Perfect Day at Point Lobos

Late June, sunny skies, early in the day, middle of the week -- so not over crowded -- high tide, coming up on a new moon, which gives the waves a little more bounce.

This view is from the North Shore Trail, looking across at Pebble Beach. It costs $9 to get in to Point Lobos State Reserve, but it's cheap fun at half the price! Parking is limited, and they stop letting people in when all the parking fills up.

During the summer and on weekends, you might find yourself parked in a line at the gate, waiting for someone to leave. Fortunately, you can also park (for free - but watch the parking signs) alongside Highway One, and there are several gorgeous paths leading into the park.

This photo was taken with a Nikon D40, really great camera, but I haven't figured out much to do with it yet. I'm still in point-and-shoot mode, and will probably be stuck here until I find my way into a photography class. It's hard for the beginning digital photographer even to grasp all the acronyms that are used in the manual, so they can get a grasp of the subject matter! Alphabet soup, anyone?