change of address

Sometimes we need to look back and hear the music of days ago to remind ourselves of the music and language still inside us.

Here is a collaboration I did with the marvelously enchanting Marina Marina:

released July 29, 2013
I’m moving again.change of address, new route.another attempt at peace.this residence i leave now is cracked. an old man once asked me “where is the place i call home”.i couldn’t help to say “my body, my body is my home”.but even as i spoke this i knew it not to be true…light splash out
swelling mouth
spills with ease
out of reach
so sink me
rush on by
city seize
“please more
handsome trees”
skip your rent
for more greenery.

Breathe, quiet leaves.
Fire, on the beach.

notice boards
scribbles sheets
heave and sigh
coffee’s weak
where to sleep?
come to me
dream of
have me please
on my knees to
pick berries
with a breeze

Breathe, quiet leaves.
Fire, on the beach.

The moon last night pushed out through a curtain of clouds and called out to me “REMAIN”.i breathed in it’s romantic shadows and fierce eye contact.this lover changes shapes each night but it never tells me to go away.

uproot songs
full of need
plant my bags
like a seed
human life
judge my face
not with sight.
please send greenery,
send greenery.

I travel beneath the plaster of earth in this construction site.and, a door opens, and birds, and…

change of address: a collision of music and poetics

Words and music bring us closer to people. I bring back this beautiful collaboration with magnificent Canadian from deep in the woods of watch tower, keeping the trees safe.

Marina Marina binds twine to my language like musical bungee cord bringing coasts and borders closer together. Check out Marina’s music and support incredible song writing and breath-taking voice stretching.

Download this song for FREE!!!!





change of address


One day I met a music MAker. We blew up time zones and border crossings with our souls. Then, a walk across a sewage line. Next, shared whiskey and a straggler from Bushwick. Some snow. Invisible letters. Tree bark saved up for words. Lots of stamps. Some singing. A uke. Guitar strings. A blur of sounds. This song.

how to feel.

How thick is this noise and will it moisturize the pain in my throat which gasps and splices me into tiny jagged selves.

I feel like this:

photograph by Ana Mendieta


as I listen to the northern forests of Canada

And I contemplate fingers thrusting against guitar strings, which are far less demanding than humans.

There is nothing left to feel, so dig shadows out from inside wall and learn the coordinates of conversational spackle.

I have memorized your day. The weather is beaded and sweaty. How much smaller can we insist our talk to be?

How about amused. Can I feel amused.

I’d like to feel devoured. Can I feel devoured.

Will you write a poem with me/ will you sit beside my scars and tell me about the last time you wept due to the brilliance of semi-colons and peanut butter sandwiches/ ask me to sing you to sleep even though I forget the words/ remember that dessert carries far more importance to my day and ask me out for a supper of ice-cream/ make love to me on bed of New York Times and let’s see what happens when the ink exchanges mediums/ ask me about my day before it begins/

I’d like to feel sober. Can I feel sober.

No: I’d like to feel heard. Are you listening.