New poem!
Published in Issue #1 of Writer's Bloc Magazine



it begins at the top

where all is taut and stretched,

secure like tightropes.


there is a sense of safeness,

the impossibility of gravity

actually showing its natural face.


but soon the bottom turns into

the top, the top turns into

the bottom and your feet


have room to swim.  your

shoulders are touching each

other and your arms make


a squeaking noise as they slide

down slowly, like honey. your toes

are sucked in and there is a


sucking noise making a small

symphony with the squeaking,

your fingers are wiggling, brushing


against it, disappearing inch by inch

until there are no wrists and there

is no waist and there are no elbows


at awkward angles and there is no

you, no me, no humbling balance,

no breakdancing guilt near the corn


flakes and the party invitations.  you

are into something now.  underneath

all of this, we are waiting.