a small little summer ride

                     This summer I rode my bicycle across the northern half of the country with eight incredible individuals. We were a group of non-cyclists trying to make a difference. We rode for victims of human trafficking, girls forced into prostitution and for Burmese refugees. It was a humbling and renewing experience. These are a few photographs from the trip.

           “We didn’t have much when we started this tour. We had a bike and two legs that could peddle.”

                     “Cycling clothes are a little like baby clothes. Diaper pants and Velcro shoes.”

                                        “You sound like a coyote in a trash compactor.”

  “Are we really sitting in a van, eating lasagna, watching the sunset because there are too many damn mosquitoes…sorry…dang mosquitoes?”

                                                  “America, you have created machines.”

                                    “Twelve hours ago we were taunting a security camera.”

Untitled #002

The words are pushed into me
somewhere in my back
finding their way through the canal of my throat
coming through my teeth in a whisper
I whisper in the shower alone
standing on the tips of toes
as if to go into a demi plie
like learned as a child
but I don't demi plie anymore
I stand there in releve as the hot water creates an illusion of cleansing
whispering to myself as the words fall into the porcelain tub and are washed down the drain.






On a lighter note, I just learned how to create hyperlinks. I know, about 13 years late. But I can't wait to employ this newly discovered ability.

Beauty

Friday was a strange day

Dead body flowing down the Mississippi
the first one I see today
can't help but no looking away
watching death as the waters sway
older man with his hat floating along too
Two minutes to the time
Too late to do anything
but watch
and I did
I watched
hand over mouth with eyes stretched wide trying to take it all in
but hide from the sight at the very same time
like fistfuls of crushed flowers
empty habitat where life once dwelt
traces of color
rimmed and lifeless

Dead body flowing down the Mississippi
the first one I see today
resting upon the waters sway
to find peace from your troubles
the brown waters wrap you up from sorrows
swallow you in warm embrace

Living the Life

A Journey of Detours

This is for the breast-bearing hippies

the wild haired feminists

the child abusers

the free radicals

the cool chasers

the happy artists and the lonely businessmen

this is for the mailwomen

for the factory workers who screw on the tops of toothpaste bottles.

This is for you

for those whose whispers are not heard

for the violent and for the meek

this is for those who stay while everyone else travels

for those who are pretending to be strong

for junior highers on bicycles and for old men in gardens

this is for the late night dishwashing wine sippers

for the new girlfriend

for the lollygaggers

this is for new mothers and dirty diapers

for the average c and for middle c

for the poser and for the hidden

for the free spirit and for the caged bird.

This is for the mustached veterinarian

for the antique junk collector

for the cyclist whose clips won't clip

for the Lutheran pastor with a colorful sash

for the old lady who shares ice cones with her dogs.

This is for girls that drive their own motorcycles

for tree-climbing homeschoolers

for single dads with young children

for tin-can robot makers

for r.v. families

for old couples who sit outside and just hold hands

for angry blonde toddlers

for old women that mow the lawn in American flag bathing suits.

This is for hoodlums with chihuahuas

and for fourteen-year-olds who move out alone because of bipolar mothers

for those who share deep secrets

for those who don't speak to their fathers

for girls that are insecure about their legs

for people that monogram their make-up bags.

This is for the vagabonds and for the wanderers

for dieting mothers

for little girls who wear bathing suits but never swim

for people who don’t want to hold hands

for the toll booth workers and for the times square street preachers.

You have made this journey unforgettable.

You have weaved in and out of my story this summer, which is only made up of me entering and exiting yours. You shared it with me, and for that I am most grateful.

Some for only a glimpse and others I have experienced more deeply.

Some are fleeting moments while others are composed of hours of conversation.

Some are only thoughts while others I have met. You make up the fabric that spans from the far west coast to the east. I am changed and at this point I’m not sure how but I know that I am. I can feel it. Bubbling to the surface the same way water does in a small black pot right before two large eggs are dropped in. It will be a long process unraveling the complexity of this summer. Discovering the changes as they surface, realizing the lessons I have learned along with the things I had to unlearn.

I am always on my way home.

heart home

> "What did you say about our home?"
> "Home is where the heart is."
> "Then mine's a mobile home."