Keeping with the spirit of apologizing for my jokes ahead of time: hey, sorry folks.  But this blog-post is unapologetically dedicated to The Pun, both crowned king of humorous forms and (like myself) shameless jester in constant danger of banishment from the comedy kingdom.  Simply put, I adore puns.  If you’re peeling beets, you can count on me to pipe up with “if you can’t beet ’em, join ’em”.  Or how about an illustration of dinner rolls dressed up as famous people we all look up to, with the caption “Roll Models”?  Let’s not even get me started, people.

The pun is workingman’s humor – you don’t have to get dressed up for a pun and take it out to a fancy dinner, carefully trying to impress it.  Puns are sluts.  All you gotta do is buy that pun a few drinks and take it home, the rest will take care of itself.  How’s that analogy workin’ out for ya?  If I think of a good one, don’t worry – I’ll keep you “posted”.  (Insert “lol” here, then load gun with single bullet.)

…aaaaaand the post bad-joke awkward silence ensues…

Two Favorites

My favorite thing is the thing I can’t explain, because there are no words for it.  But you know what I mean.  You feel it too.

My second favorite thing is what we talk about – what is possible to communicate with language, what can be expressed, what can wear the clothing of poetry.



Praise for the sky, my vaulted ceiling.

Praise for the ground, my sturdy floor.

Praise for my eyes, magic windows.

Praise for my heart, an opening door.

Praise for the sun, my heavenly father.

Praise for the earth, my goddess mother.

Praise for the moon, my wandering sister.

Praise for the rainbow, my warrior brother.



The world moves me, incredibly, yet hurts so much with all its trouble.  We are all each other.  We are all vital and fresh, and greasy damaged goods, all at once.  We are a mash of matter and cells, primordial puree.

I want to shed my human-ness and unite with my animal incarnation.  Wither my body and swipe it out of the way, integrate my spirit-life into the land itself, the very sky.  Be inside stones and water and wood, be outside what we perceive as space, divorced of linear time.


Mortal Wounds

It was odd, having a hospital bed in the house, a morphine drip-bag next to it, attached to a metal stand.  I especially hated the head-brace with the four clamps, and the way the four prongs actually entered the flesh of your skull.  The memory of that spring morning is like a frozen painting in my head, like a song that you not only know every note of, but is also a selection from the soundtrack to your life – inescapable, like weather or family bloodline or disease carried by mosquitos.

I awoke to the smell of a decomposing body.  Realizing I had missed the chance to say goodbye, I cautiously entered your room and kissed your cheek, then returned to my own bedroom.  The paramedics arrived, and because my bedroom door was open I could see them file past as they walked down the hall and into your room.  I listened to the sounds of a lifeless body being wrestled onto a gurney, then watched them pass again with you in front of my doorway.  The gurney banged against the wall twice and I winced.  I don’t know why I winced, I don’t suppose it mattered that it hit the wall.  That was the last time I saw you, unless you count ashes in an urn.

Twenty-five years and still trying to heal.  That particular morning I wandered out and caught the bus to go to school, didn’t know what else to do, I guess.  My history teacher saw me in the hallway and said I had to go home.  He was normally a hard-ass, but that day I could see tenderness on his face.

Of course, when we say all we want is to be left alone, what we mean is we don’t want to be left alone.


Prosperity is a good pair of shoes.  Beauty is to sleep well.

Good fortune is to enjoy your work.  Bliss is something to eat.

Magic is having your health.  Comfort is a simple life.

Perfection is a parent and child laughing together.

Peace is a choice you make.