cdxxxiv. my flickr contacts

glancing out, peeping in, each view a postcard until i no longer look for pictures but persons, then the wall is wholly window and i am truly praying.

cdxxxi. balot

you are the new magician, harry is only pottering around.

cdxiii. wilson st

i imagine old friends coming over for a barbecue and i call everyone by first name. sometimes it’s so real, i taste their favorite drinks on my tongue.

cdvii. when my parents first met

rainbows settled in silent flares around their faded bell-bottoms and defiant hair, igniting them. they were the revolution.

ccclix. gracia

she’s plucking eyebrows and staring in the mirror and letting it all blow up.

ccxcvii. mel, may you rest in peace

the angels are drops of water sliding back and forth on anxious fingers ready to testify: maybe i should pretend they’re not there. they’ve all gone anyway, like a million glances evaporating quickly into make-believe air.

cclxxxvii. dencio

summer is amazing and so is a best friend with whom you can camp at beaches with and laugh all night long.

cvii. mom

i count my blessings on my fingers and you are always number one, hooked inside my thumb.

lxv. to the only prophet

there’s always a piano playing in the europe of your mind.

xxvii. badman and throbin

i fantasize that my father and i create similar glimpses of a more expansive consciousness.