It’s Existential In my dream someone I don't recognize is reading my mind one word at a time. Or perhaps they're writing, in cursive, composing my dream, not reading at all. I can't tell. I don't recognize the hand but... Continue Reading →
Post-it Therapy I am the Post-it note on the subway walls. Canal Street: my body not yours, Fathers – apologize to your daughters, stay together, don't give up, Light and love to all. Read me, write on me. I am... Continue Reading →
Poetry Breakfast 