on the westmost point
a series of sheer cliffs rise
unboastfully from the sea,
forming a vantage point
with views that stretch
onward to infinity
and halfway to you.


oh.  and there are boxes.

corners crushed by careless drops.
flaps, dog-eared and ragged.

they hold on, faithfully,
to such earnest charge.

at one time labeled with care.
now, adorned in graffiti
i can no longer discern.

oh, and there are boxes.
some, i don’t open any more.

not for fear of their contents
or what thoughts might be conjured.
but for the deep, intimate knowledge
of what they contain.  

you see -
for a time, i lived in those boxes.
and some pieces of me
never escaped.

Insta-photo: #sffd

Awakened at 2:30am by a fire emergency in the building. A particularly rowdy resident was shouting that someone must have been having hot sex. Dubious. Many thanks to the #SFFD. “Everything is OK now, though you might still smell the smoke.”


There is this story I used to like.
Paraphrased, roughly, it goes:

Jack and Jill go to the park every other weekend and have a picnic.  Every time, Jack prepares peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the pair, and every time, he makes Jill’s sandwich using the end pieces of the loaf of bread.  Jack uses the middle pieces for his own sandwich, and by the next excursion they’ve eaten through the rest of the loaf (e.g, toast, etc.) for the cycle to begin again.
This continues for months, and Jill finally asks Jack why he always makes her sandwich using the end pieces.  Jack replies, simply, “Because those are the pieces I like best.”

Nowadays, I can’t help but wonder –
what if Jill didn’t like the ends of the bread?