Monday, January 16, 2006


After a few years,
everything becomes
we enter the
marine-green room,
and take our self-assigned seats
on the well-worn,
soft, beige sofa.
I usually adjust the
beige pillows
because I like hiding
behind something
(in case things get too intense).

We each hold our cups of tea;
mine, traditional green or some sort of red;
her, peppermint, always peppermint.
We each hold our warm cups,
face forward,
and begin.

There is usually
a fair amount of "catching-up"
depending on how much time has passed.
For some reason,
we, unknowingly,
discussing "us."

We never come
with a plan in mind.
The only time we had
a plan
was the first time:
the reason why we began.
We never come
with a plan, yet
we never want
to begin, and
once we do
finally start,
we always find
to talk about.

Once we start
we don't stop;
we delve deeper and deeper
into the uncomfortable:

We sit,
facing forward,
facing these
allowing them
to be present,
cognizant, and
very slowly
begin shifting them into the realm of
We hold onto these emotions,
push them through
our bodies,
and let them out,
to sit with us in the
marine-green room.

Our goal?
We have small goals,
"homework assignments"
designed to help us practice.
At times, our
BIG goal
becomes unclear, but
we still know it

People often ask,
Why do you go to therapy?
I tell them
every person
should be in therapy.
You don't need to be
It's like going to the
mind mechanic
for a routine oil change.
You go (every 3,000 miles)
to keep healthy and
running smoothly.
It always amazes me
how we can drive
3,000 miles
or more
in a week
or two.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

a question on men

Yesterday, a woman
asked me a question
on men.
When that porcelain voice
seeped into me,
I became a prisoner.

Yes, I said.
What? she asked.
Are you listening to me?

I love you, I said
as she walked away.

Yesterday, a woman
asked me a question
on men.
I think I answered

a taste of lonliness

I remember
that voice.
I miss
how we
would smile
after sex.
I sat at our window,
wet with rain and fog and winter,
and tasted salt
on my cheek.

Friday, January 06, 2006

The summer's green hand

The summer's green hand
did open me to
the many cloudless
She touches me,
warmth on my shoulder,
leading me,
as a child,
through her trees
quietly and patiently.
I want to touch feel one,
but there is no time;
I may only look.
I see blue, yellow, and brown

Monday, January 02, 2006

they were young to the world

They were young
to the world.
Only she would compose
her vivid dreams.
Soon, he was like
her silhouette:
They were young
to the world,
but old to each other.