Bello Birthday, six and seven

Happy 7 years my love.

I said recently, maybe when my father died, seven years ago, his love was released and maybe that’s why Bello wandered lost into my life 6 years ago this month–found.







stream from eyeslits



hooked to ivy

morphine drips

a tear caught in your crevice

as you drew your last breath

as if this is the way

to let go

“hurts too much”


Sometimes we keep holding on

we salt [the dead]

we slow cook [the meat]

we devour



Sometimes the geese are so loud

like today

they interrupt prayers, wishes

and ask me to remain

to stay

awake. even if sleep floods


I keep driving out to the ocean

I watch the waves’ teeth chatter

at what is drawn in the sand