In the summer you write in the morning.

What can I tell you that you don’t already know?


The 101 in Ventura County in June smells strawberry sweet.  There are paintings of seagulls on a wall in town, circling a convertible.

My sister-in-law is 8 and a half months pregnant and I never got to hug her when her belly was big and round.

For every 10 men on the internet dating site, odds are 1 is actually looking for more than just text-flirting for fun.

June gloom in Orange County means running on the beach when the air is buoyant gray. The best way to run is Santigold.

The neighbor runs laundry all day long but never goes anywhere.  20 years of healing can be imparted inside 2 minutes of wisdom.

I fell in love 5 times since the winter, and all 5 are still sober, today.


My last cousin graduated.  I left my love for so long, back there.

Peace with my grammy

restored. I don’t have to watch out

for them anymore. It makes me mad that all that time has passed

and the most I have to show for it are some photos on a screen.

What can I tell myself

about home that I

don’t already



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