The Castro We Knew – A Poem

Yesterday, Jacob and I drove through our old neighborhood in San Francisco after my UCSF appointment before we started our drive back to Montana to quarantine for 2 weeks. While we couldn’t see anyone in person, I wanted to see the city that stole a part of me. What we saw? My heart breaks for the communities I love.


The Castro We Knew

Rainbow crosswalks sleep
Beneath COVID covered streets.
Storefronts beg we stand together
While standing six feet apart

What happened to our promised land?
These parklets – empty squatters
Where free STD clinic vans once sat
The city lost interest – no tourists; no hands

Our silent ghost town of glitter —
Toxic smoke settling
Into a matte finish over
All we once thought was gold


You can help support The Castro of San Francisco and help it survive by shopping Castro Merchants, supporting the San Francisco LGBT Center, and donating money to keep the GLBT Historical Society (operating the Harvey Milk Memorial) operating during the COVID-19 shutdowns. If you can’t donate, you can start conversations about this special place needing assistance and share these websites with friends and family. Every little bit helps.

Sage Flowers – A Poem

Sage Flowers

The desert is painted
Sage brushed hues
–Purples and blues
Emerging from ephemeral
Stream beds and rivers
Echoing wind currents
Of flowing cloud covered skies
–Just close your eyes
Follow the songs of
Rattling herbaceous leaves
Blowing in the breeze
These little desert trees

Thank you for taking the time to read this poem today! What did you think of it? What did it remind you of or make you think of? I’d love to hear in the comments!

If you’d like to see more of my poetry, please like, comment, and/or share this post. It helps me know what content my readers are most interested in seeing, so I can better know what to share here.

For Linden – A Poem

This poem was crossposted to Instagram on 14 September 2020.


For Linden

When you look up at the stars
Do they guide you on your way?
This tiny vessel of time compose
Of hands, and feet,
And eyes, and toes,
On a spaceship on its course –

Navigator, your path
Is yours to choose
So don’t let lights
Of ancient love confuse
Instead know they send
Echoing guidance across
This eternal sea;
So you may find safe passage
When all is fraught with fear
For no matter how far away
Your family is always near


Thank you for taking the time to read this poem today! What did you think of it? What did it remind you of or make you think of? I’d love to hear in the comments!

If you’d like to see more of my poetry, please like, comment, and/or share this post. It helps me know what content my readers are most interested in seeing, so I can better know what to share here.

Thoughts On The “Slow Food” Movement

This piece of prose is meant to serve a dual purpose: provide a life update and artistically reflect on 2020.


Have you heard of this thing? It’s called, “Slow Food.”

I shake my head. “Isn’t that cooking?”

“No, no. Not like that.” Judgmental tuts put me in my place.

People are always waiting to tell other people they’re breathing the wrong way because it isn’t the way they learned how to breathe.

I stare at my ceiling as my partner falls asleep. “Is my food meant to be causing constipation?” What is meant by slow? Sounds uncomfortable.

2020 distorts time like light passing through water and glass – the concentrated pockets brighten momentarily, but fade into the surrounding textures and patterns. I’m reminded of Bay Time – of a place in my past that no longer exists – when waking up during the blue hour meant a circuit of nets and crab pots, checking juvenile oyster baskets for conchs as they float tethered and returning by mid-morning on a clear day – when our family’s laughter sparkled off the water for hours as we chattered and picked steamed crab from exoskeletons. Hand-packed. Frozen. Thawed. Remembered.

Did I remember to respond to those emails last week? What about those interview questions I was going to write? What is Slow Food?

I create daily menus as my partner’s coworkers abandon ship for economic mirages. The grass is always greener… says the cow chewing cud.

What started as a chance to write 6 books turns into 6 unfinished books and 4 shelved ones. No one reads this. Why would anyone want to? Is there a world where my words matter?

“No, no. Not like that.” Say the rejections I receive.

I search for staff writing and editing positions at places that might acknowledge and apologize for microaggressions. Where I would feel safe bringing them up. I try to imagine a writing position where I could continue to find growth. I take two weeks off wondering if they’ve realized I’m the only staff editor they didn’t acknowledge the birthday of yet.

“No, no. Not like that.” Says the writing group I try out, but don’t feel comfortable going back to after the group leader says those that are talented at writing fiction are narcissists… after she compliments my ability to write fiction.

I read antique poetry books for inspiration and tell myself I’ll finish A Hundred Different Skies. I’ll finish at least one to be sure. But no one will read it. Why would they? Not even my family supports me anymore.

I stop getting on Twitter after our friend dies. He’s not the first death this year. My heart hurts. I’m told to take care of myself, but in isolation it’s not that simple. The words don’t come when I try to talk about the brick building on Poquoson Ave. I begin seriously considering mortuary school again.

“Have you tried Slow Food?”

“Isn’t that cooking?” I stare at these pages of unpolished text.

I lose a close friend to schizophrenia. She creates 15+ phone numbers and iMessage accounts to call and harass me about how I am the grey goo in her computer — about how I knew about the people living in her walls — about how the literary magazine I gave her in Summer 2018 predicted all of this. I try not to dwell on wedding pictures. My voicemail box fills regularly to the point my doctors can’t get ahold of me.

For the first summer since undergrad I lose count of the number of times I’ve been camping. This feels like the correct number of times. I start to wish I didn’t have to go home and find myself learning how to do seasonal prepping of food for the winter. I already knew.

“Have you tried Slow Food?”

“Isn’t that cooking?” My entire life has changed, but I haven’t found a new normal. Nothing is normal, and the only thing “slow” is Schrödinger’s Time in this box of a year trying to tell me everything is both fine and not fine at the same time.

But “No, no. Not like that,” says the world as it spins madly on.


Thank you so much for taking the time to read my writing today. If you enjoyed this piece, please like, comment, and/or share it. This helps me know which posts my readers enjoy the most.